A 


HILLS    OF    HAN 


BOOKS  BY  SAMUEL  MERWIN 

THE  HENRY  CALVERLY  SEQUENCE 

Temperamental  Henry 

Henry  Is  Twenty 

The  Passionate  Pilgrim 
OTHER  NOVELS  AND  NARRATIVES 

The  Honey  Bee 

The  Trufflers 

The  Citadel 

His  Little  World 

The  Road  Builders 
ROMANCES 

Anthony  the  Absolute 

The  Charmed  Life  of  Miss  Austin 

The  Road  to  Frontenac 

The  Whip  Hand 

The  Merry  Anne 

Hills  of  Han 
IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  HENRY  KITCHELL  WEBSTER 

Calumet  K 

The  Short-Line  War 

Comrade  John 
AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  OPIUM  TRAFFIC  IN  CHINA 

Drugging  a  Nation 


As  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  danger 


HillsofHan 


A  ROMANTIC  INCIDENT 


SAMUEL  MERWIN 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

WALT  LOUDERBACK 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1919,  1920 
SAMUEL  MERWIN 


Printed  m  the  "United  Statet  of  America 


purss  or 

BRAUNWORTH    *  CO. 

BOOK  MANUFACTURIR8 

•ROOKLVN,   N.  V. 


Hills  of  Han, 
Slumber  on!  The  sunlight,  dying, 

Lingers  on  your  terraced  tops; 
Yellow  stream  and  willow  sighing, 

Field  of  twice  ten  thousand  crops 
Breathe  their  misty  lullabying, 

Breathe  a  life  that  never  stops. 

Spin  your  chart  of  ancient  wonder, 

Fold  your  hands  within  your  sleeve. 
Live  and  let  live,  work  and  ponder ', 
Be  tradition,  dream,  believe  .  .  ± 
So  abides  your  ancient  plan, 
Hills  of  Han! 

Hills  of  Han, 
What's  this  filament  goes  leaping 

Pole  to  pole  and  hill  to  hill? 
What  these  strips  of  metal  creeping 

Where  the  dead  have  lain  so  still? 
What  this  wilder  thought  that's  seeping 

Where  was  peace  and  gentle  will? 

Smoke  of  mill  on  road  and  river, 

Roar  of  steam  by  temple  wall  .  .  . 
Dr op  the  arrow  in  the  quiver  .  .  . 
Bow  to  Buddha.  .  .  .  All  is  all! 
Slumber  they  who  slumber  can, 
Hills  of  Han! 


2137152 


NOTE 

The  slight  geographical  confusion  which  will  be  found 
by  the  observant  reader  in  Hills  of  Han  is  employed  as 
a  reminder  that  the  story,  despite  considerable  elements 
of  fact  in  the  background,  is  a  work  of  the  imagination, 
and  deals  with  no  actual  individuals  of  the  time  and 
place.  S.  M. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I    THE  SOLITARY 

II    ROMANCE 33 

III  THE  SHEPHERD 43 

IV  THE  RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH 69 

V    IN  T'AINAN 86 

VI    CATASTROPHE 113 

VII    LOVE  Is  A  TROUBLE 129 

VIII    THE  WAYFARER 141 

IX    KNOTTED  LIVES        151 

X    GRANITE 163 

XI    EMOTION 174 

XII    STORM  CENTER 183 

XIII  THE  PLEDGE 199 

XIV  DILEMMA 220 

XV    THE  HILLS 236 

XVI    DESTINY 251 

XVII    APPARITION '   .  273 

XVIII    THE  DARK 291 

XIX    LIVING  THROUGH 307 

XX    LIGHT       316 

XXI    THE  SOULS  OF  MEN 336 

XXII    BEGINNINGS   .           353 


HILLS    OF    HAN 


HILLS  OF  HAN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SOLITARY 

1 

ON  a  day  in  late  March,  1907,  Miss  Betty  Doane 
sat  in  the  quaintly  airy  dining-room  of  the  Hotel 
Miyaka,  at  Kioto,  demurely  sketching  a  man's  profile 
on  the  back  of  a  menu  card. 

The  man,  her  unconscious  model,  lounged  comfort- 
ably alone  by  one  of  the  swinging  windows.  He  had 
finished  his  luncheon,  pushed  away  his  coffee  cup, 
lighted  a  cigarette,  and  settled  back  to  gaze  out  at 
the  hillside  where  young  green  grasses  and  gay  shrubs 
and  diminutive  trees  bore  pleasant  evidence  that  the 
early  Japanese  springtime  was  at  hand. 

Betty  could  even  see,  looking  out  past  the  man,  a 
row  of  cherry  trees,  all  a  foam  with  blossoms.  They 
brought  a  thrill  that  was  almost  poignant.  It  was  curi- 
ous, at  home — or,  rather,  back  in  the  States — there 
was  no  particular  thrill  in  cherry  blossoms.  They 
were  merely  pleasing.  But  so  much  more  was  said 
about  them  here  in  Japan. 

1 


2  HILLS  OF  HAN 

The  man's  head  was  long  and  well  modeled,  with 
a  rugged  long  face,  reflective  eyes,  somewhat  bony 
nose,  and  a  wide  mouth  that  was,  on  the  whole,  at- 
tractive. Both  upper  lip  and  chin  were  clean  shaven. 
The  eyebrows  were  rather  heavy;  the  hair  was  thick 
and  straight,  slanting  down  across  a  broad  forehead. 
She  decided,  as  she  sketched  it  in  with  easy  sure 
strokes  of  a  stubby  pencil,  that  he  must  have  quite  a 
time  every  morning  brushing  that  hair  down  into 
place. 

He  had  appeared,  a  few  days  back,  at  the  Grand 
Hotel,  Yokohama,  coming  in  from  somewhere  north 
of  Tokio.  At  the  hotel  he  had  walked  and  eaten 
alone,  austerely.  And,  not  unnaturally,  had  been  whis- 
pered about.  He  was,  Betty  knew,  a  journalist  of 
some  reputation.  The  name  was  Jonathan  Brachey. 
He  wore  an  outing  suit,  with  knickerbockers;  he  was, 
in  bearing,  as  in  costume,  severely  conspicuous.  You 
thought  of  him  as  a  man  of  odd  attainment.  He  had 
been  in  many  interesting  corners  of  the  world;  had 
known  danger  and  privation.  Two  of  his  books  were 
in  the  ship's  library.  One  of  these  she  had  already 
taken  out  and  secreted  in  her  cabin.  It  was  called 
To-morrow  in  India,  and  proved  rather  hard  to  read, 
with  charts,  diagrams  and  pages  of  figures. 

The  sketch  was  about  done ;  all  but  the  nose.  When 
you  studied  that  nose  in  detail  it  seemed  a  little  too 
long  and  strong,  and — well,  knobby — to  be  as  attrac- 
tive as  it  actually  was.  There  would  be  a  trick  in 
drawing  it;  a  shadow  or  two,  a  suggestive  touch  of  the 


THE  SOLITARY  3 

pencil;  not  so  many  real  knobs.  In  the  ship's  dining- 
room  she  had  his  profile  across  an  aisle.  There  would 
be  chances  to  study  it. 

Behind  her,  in  the  wide  doorway,  appeared  a  stout, 
short  woman  of  fifty  or  more,  in  an  ample  and  wrin- 
kled traveling  suit  of  black  and  a  black  straw  hat 
ornamented  only  with  a  bow  of  ribbon.  Her  face 
wore  an  anxious  expression  that  had  settled,  years 
back,  into  permanency.  The  mouth  drooped  a  little. 
And  the  brows  were  lifted  and  the  forehead  grooved 
with  wrinkles  suggesting  some  long  habitual  straining 
of  the  eyes  that  recent  bifocal  spectacles  were  power- 
less to  correct. 

"Betty !"  called  the  older  woman  guardedly.  "Would 
you  mind,  dear  .  .  .  one  moment  ...  ?" 

Her  quick,  nervous  eyes  had  caught  something  of 
the  situation.  There  was  Betty  and — within  easy  ear- 
shot— a  man.  The  child  was  unquestionably  sketch- 
ing him. 

Betty's  eagerly  alert  young  face  fell  at  the  sound. 
She  stopped  drawing;  for  a  brief  instant  chewed  the 
stubby  pencil;  then,  quite  meekly,  rose  and  walked 
toward  the  door. 

"Mr.  Hasmer  is  outside.  I  thought  you  were  with 
him,  Betty." 

"No  ...  I  didn't  know  your  plans  ...  I 
was  waiting  here." 

"Well,  my  dear  .  .  .  it's  all  right,  of  course! 
But  I  think  we'll  go  now.  Mr.  Hasmer  thinks  you 
ought  to  see  at  least  one  of  the  temples.  Something 


4  HILLS  OF  HAN 

typical.  And  of  course  you  will  want  to  visit  the 
cloisonne  and  satsuma  shops,  and  see  the  Damascene 
work.  The  train  leaves  for  Kobe  at  four-fifteen.  The 
ships  sails  at  about  eight,  I  believe.  We  haven't  much 
time,  you  see." 

A  chair  scraped.  Jonathan  Brachey  had  picked  up 
his  hat,  his  pocket  camera  and  his  unread  copy  of  the 
Japan  Times,  and  was  striding  toward  her,  or  toward 
the  door.  He  would  pass  directly  by,  of  course,  with- 
out so  much  as  a  mental  recognition  of  her  existence. 
For  so  he  had  done  at  Yokohama ;  so  he  had  done  last 
evening  and  again  this  morning  on  the  ship. 

But  on  this  occasion,  as  he  bore  down  on  her,  the 
eyes  of  the  distinguished  young  man  rested  for  an 
instant  on  the  table,  and  for  a  brief  moment  he  wav- 
ered in  his  stride.  He  certainly  saw  the  sketch.  It 
lay  where  she  had  carelessly  tossed  it,  face  up,  near 
the  edge  of  the  table.  And  he  certainly  recognized  it 
for  himself;  for  his  strong  facial  muscles  moved  a 
very  little.  It  couldn't  have  been  called  a  smile;  but 
those  muscles  distinctly  moved.  Then,  as  coolly  as 
before,  he  strode  on  out  of  the  room. 

Betty's  cheeks  turned  crimson.  A  further  fact  doubt- 
less noted  by  this  irritatingly,  even  arrogantly  com- 
posed man. 

Betty,  with  desperate  dignity,  put  the  sketch  in  her 
wrist  bag,  followed  Mrs.  Hasmer  out  of  the  building, 
and  stepped  into  the  rickshaw  that  awaited  her. 

The  brown-legged  coolie  tucked  the  robe  about  her, 
stepped  in  between  the  shafts  of  the  vehicle;  a  second 


THE  SOLITARY  5 

coolie  fell  into  place  behind,  and  they  were  off  down 
the  hill.  Just  ahead,  Mrs.  Hasmer's  funny  little  hat 
bobbed  with  the  inequalities  of  the  road.  Just  behind, 
Doctor  Hasmer,  a  calm,  patient  man  who  taught  phi- 
losophy and  history  in  a  Christian  college  fifteen  hun- 
dred miles  or  more  up  the  Yangtse  River  and  who 
never  could  remember  to  have  his  silvery  beard 
trimmed,  smiled  kindly  at  her  when  she  turned. 

And  behind  him,  indifferent  to  all  the  human  world, 
responsive  in  his  frigid  way  only  to  the  beauties  of  the 
Japanese  country-side  and  of  the  quaint,  gray-brown, 
truly  ancient  city  extending  up  and  down  the  valley 
by  its  narrow,  stone-walled  stream,  rode  Mr.  Jonathan 
Brachey. 

The  coolies,  it  would  seem,  had  decided  to  act  in 
concert.  From  shop  to  shop  among  the  crowded  little 
streets  went  the  four  rickshaws.  Any  mere  human 
being  (so  ran  Betty's  thoughts)  would  have  accepted 
good-humoredly  the  comradeship  implied  in  this  ar- 
rangement on  the  part  of  a  playful  fate;  but  Mr. 
Brachey  was  no  mere  human  being.  Side  by  side 
stood  the  four  of  them  in  a  toy  workshop  looking 
down  at  toy-like  artisans  with  shaved  and  tufted 
heads  who  wore  quaint  robes  and  patiently  beat  out 
designs  in  gold  and  silver  wire  on  expertly  fashioned 
bronze  boxes  and  bowls.  They  listened  as  one  to  the 
thickly  liquid  English  of  a  smiling  merchant  explain- 
ing the  processes  and  expanding  on  the  history  of 
fine  handiwork  in  this  esthetic  land.  Yet  by  no  sign 
did  Mr.  Brachey's  face  indicate  that  he  was  aware 


6  HILLS  OF  HAN 

of  their  presence ;  except  once — on  a  crooked  stairway 
in  a  cloisonne  shop  he  flattened  himself  against  the 
wall  to  let  them  pass,  muttering,  almost  fiercely,  "I 
beg  your  pardon !" 

The  moment  came,  apparently,  when  he  could  en- 
'dure  this  enforced  companionship  no  longer.  He 
spoke  gruffly  to  his  rickshaw  coolies,  and  rolled  off 
alone.  When  they  finally  reached  the  railway  station 
after  a  half-hour  spent  in  wandering  about  the  spa- 
cious enclosure  of  the  Temple  of  Nishi  Otani,  with  its 
huge,  shadowy  gate  house,  its  calm  priests,  its  ex- 
quisite rock  garden  under  ancient  mystical  trees — the 
tall  journalist  was  pacing  the  platform,  savagely  smok- 
ing a  pipe. 

At  Kobe  they  were  united  again,  riding  out  to  the 
ship's  anchorage  in  the  same  launch.  But  Mr.  Brachey 
gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  He  disappeared  the  mo- 
ment of  arrival  at  the  ship,  reappearing  only  when  the 
bugle  announced  dinner,  dressed,  as  he  had  been  each 
evening  at  the  Grand  Hotel  and  the  previous  evening 
on  the  ship,  rather  stiffly,  in  dinner  costume. 

Then  the  ship  moved  out  from  her  anchorage  into 
that  long,  island-studded,  green-bordered  body  of 
water  known  as  the  Inland  Sea  of  Japan.  Early  on 
the  second  morning  she  would  slip  in  between  the  close- 
pressing  hills  that  guard  Nagasaki  harbor.  There  an- 
other day  ashore.  Then  three  days  more  across  the 
Yellow  Sea  to  Shanghai.  Thence,  for  the  Hasmers 
and  Betty,  a  five-day  journey  by  steamer  up  the  muddy 
but  majestic  Yangtse  Kiang  to  Hankow;  at  whidi 


THE  SOLITARY  7 

important  if  hardly  charming  city  they  would  sepa- 
rate, the  Hasmers  to  travel  on  by  other,  smaller 
steamer  to  Ichang  and  thence  on  up  through  the  Gorges 
to  their  home  among  the  yellow  folk  of  Szechwan, 
while  Betty,  from  Hankow,  must  set  out  into  an  ex- 
istence that  her  highly  colored  young  mind  found  it 
impossible  to  face  squarely.  As  yet,  despite  the  long 
journey  across  the  American  continent  and  the  Pacific, 
she  hadn't  begun  so  much  as  to  believe  the  facts. 
Though  there  they  stood,  squarely  enough,  before  her. 
It  had  been  easier  to  surrender  her  responsive,  rather 
easily  gratified  emotions  to  a  day-by-day  enjoyment 
of  the  journey  itself.  When  the  constant,  worried 
watchfulness  of  Mrs.  Hasmer  reached  the  point  of  an- 
noyance— not  that  Mrs.  Hasmer  wasn't  an  old  dear; 
kindness  itself,  especially  if  your  head  ached  or  you 
needed  a  little  mothering! — why  then,  with  the  easy 
adaptability  and  quick  enthusiasm  of  youth,  she  sim- 
ply busied  herself  sketching.  The  top  layer  of  her 
steamer  trunk  was  nearly  full  now — sketches  of  the 
American  desert,  of  the  mountains  and  San  Francisco, 
of  people  on  the  ship,  of  the  sea  and  of  Honolulu. 

But  now,  with  Yokohama  back  among  the  yester- 
days and  Kobe  falling  rapidly,  steadily  astern,  Betty's 
heart  was  as  rapidly  and  as  steadily  sinking.  Only 
one  more  stop,  and  then — China.  In  China  loomed 
the  facts. 

That  night,  lying  in  her  berth,  Betty,  forgot  the 
cherry  blossoms  of  Kioto  and  the  irritating  Mr. 
Brachey.  Her  thoughts  dwelt  among  the  young 


8  HILLS  OF  HAN 

friends,  the  boy-and-girl  "crowd,"  she  had  left  be- 
hind, far  off,  at  the  other  edge  of  those  United  States 
that  by  a  queerly  unreal  theory  were  her  home-land. 
And,  very  softly,  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 


Betty  Doane  was  just  nineteen.  She  was  small, 
quick  to  feel  and  think,  dark  rather  than  light  (though 
not  an  out-and-out  brunette).  She  was  distinctly 
pretty.  Her  small  head  with  its  fine  and  abundant 
hair,  round  face  with  its  ever-ready  smile,  alert  brown 
eyes  and  curiously  strong  little  chin  expressed,  as  did 
her  slim  quick  body,  a  personality  of  considerable 
sprightly  vigor  and  of  a  charm  that  could  act  on  cer- 
tain other  sorts  of  personalities,  particularly  of  the 
opposite  sex,  with  positive,  telling  effect. 

Mrs.  Hasmer,  who  had  undertaken,  with  misgivings, 
to  bring  her  from  suburban  New  Jersey  to  Hankow, 
found  her  a  heavy  responsibility.  It  wasn't  that  the 
child  was  insubordinate,  forward,  or,  in  anyway  that 
you  could  blame  her  for,  difficult.  On  the  contrary, 
she  was  a  dear  little  thing,  kind,  always  amusing, 
eager  to  please.  But  none  the  less  there  was  some- 
thing, a  touch  of  vital  quality,  perhaps  of  the  rare  gift 
of  expressiveness,  that  gave  her,  at  times,  a  rather 
alarming  aspect.  Her  clothes  were  simple  enough — 
Griggsby  Doane,  goodness  knew,  couldn't  afford  any- 
thing else — but  in  some  way  that  Mrs.  Hasmer  would 
never  fully  understand,  the  child  always  managed  to 


THE  SOLITARY  9 

make  them  look  better  than  they  were.  She  had  some- 
thing of  the  gift  of  smartness.  She  had,  Mrs.  Hasmer 
once  came  out  with,  "too  much  imagination."  The 
incessant  sketching,  for  instance.  And  she  did  it  just 
a  shade  too  well.  Then,  too,  evening  after  evening 
during  the  three  weeks  on  the  Pacific,  she  had  danced. 
Which  was,  from  the  only  daughter  of  Griggsby 
Doane — well,  confusing.  And  though  Mrs.  Hasmer, 
balked  by  the  delicacy  of  her  position,  had  gone  to 
lengths  in  concealing  her  disapproval,  she  had  been 
unable  to  feign  surprise  at  the  resulting  difficulties. 
Betty  had  certainly  not  been  deliberate  in  leading  on 
any  of  the  men  on  the  ship;  young  men,  by  the  way 
that  you  had  no  means  of  looking  up,  even  so  far  as 
the  certainty  that  they  were  unmarried.  But  the 
young  mining  engineer  on  his  way  to  Korea  had  left 
quite  heart-broken.  From  all  outer  indications  he  had 
proposed  marriage  and  met  with  a  refusal.  But  not  a 
word,  not  a  hint,  not  so  much  as  a  telltale  look,  came 
from  Betty. 

Mrs.  Hasmer  sighed  over  it.  She  would  have  liked 
to  know.  She  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Betty  had 
been  left  just  a  year  or  so  too  long  in  the  States.  They 
weren't  serious  over  there,  in  the  matter  of  training 
girls  for  the  sober  work  of  life.  Prosperity,  luxury, 
were  telling  on  the  younger  generations.  No  longer 
were  they  guarded  from  dangerously  free  thinking. 
They  read,  heard,  saw  everything;  apparently  knew 
everything.  They  read  openly,  of  a  Sunday,  books 
which,  a  generation  earlier,  would  not  have  reached 


10  HILLS  OF  HAN 

their  eyes  even  on  a  week-day.  The  church  seemed 
to  have  lost  its  hold  (though  she  never  spoke  aloud 
of  this  fact).  Respect  for  tradition  and  authority  had 
crumbled  away.  They  questioned,  weighed  everything, 
these  modern  children.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Hasmer  worried 
a  good  deal,  out  in  China,  about  young  people  in  the 
States. 

But  under  these  surface  worries,  lurked,  in  the  good 
woman's  mind,  a  deeper,  more  real  worry.  Betty  was 
just  stepping  over  the  line  between  girlhood  and  young 
womanhood.  She  was  growing  more  attractive  daily. 
She  was  anything  but  fitted  to  step  into  the  life  that 
lay  ahead.  Wherever  she  turned,  even  now — as  wit- 
ness the  Pacific  ship — life  took  on  fresh  complications. 
Indeed,  Mrs.  Hasmer,  pondering  the  problem,  came 
down  on  the  rather  strong  word,  peril.  A  young  girl 
— positive  in  attractiveness,  gifted,  spirited,  mother- 
less (as  it  happened),  trained  only  to  be  happy  in  liv- 
ing— was  in  something  near  peril. 

One  fact  which  Mrs.  Hasmer's  mind  had  been  forced 
to  accept  was  that  most  of  the  complications  came 
from  sources  or  causes  with  which  the  girl  herself 
had  little  consciously  to  do.  She  was  flatly  the  sort 
of  person  to  whom  things  happened.  Even  when  her 
eager  interest  in  life  and  things  and  men  (young  and 
old)  was  not  busy. 

In  the  matter  of  the  rather  rude  young  man  in  knick- 
erbockers, at  Kioto,  Betty  was  to  blame,  of  course.  She 
had  set  to  work  to  sketch  him.  Evidently.  The  most 
you  could  say  for  her  on  that  point  was  that  she  would 


THE  SOLITARY  11 

have  set  just  as  intently  at  sketching  an  old  man,  or 
a  woman,  or  a  child — or  a  corner  of  the  room.  Mrs. 
Hasmer  had  felt,  while  on  the  train  to  Kobe,  that  she 
must  speak  of  the  matter.  After  all,  she  had  that 
deathly  responsibility  on  her  shoulders.  Betty's  only 
explanation,  rather  gravely  given,  had  been  that  she 
found  his  nose  interesting. 

The  disturbing  point  was  that  something  in  the  way 
of  a  situation  was  sure  to  develop  from  the  incident. 
Something.  Six  weeks  of  Betty  made  that  a  reason- 
able assumption.  And  the  first  complication  would 
arise  in  some  quite  unforeseen  way.  Betty  wouldn't 
bring  it  about.  Indeed,  she  had  quickly  promised  not 
to  sketch  him  any  more. 

This  is  the  way  it  did  arise.  At  eleven  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hasmer  and  Betty  were 
stretched  out  side  by  side  in  their  steamer  chairs,  sip- 
ping their  morning  beef  tea  and  looking  out  at  the 
rugged  north  shore  of  the  Inland  Sea.  Beyond  Betty 
were  three  vacant  chairs,  then  this  Mr.  Brachey — his 
long  person  wrapped  in  a  gay  plaid  rug.  He  too  was 
sipping  beef  tea  and  enjoying  the  landscape;  if  so  dry, 
so  solitary  a  person  could  be  said  to  enjoy  anything. 
A  note-book  lay  across  his  knees. 

Mrs.  Hasmer  had  thought,  with  a  momentary  flutter 
of  concern,  of  moving  Betty  to  the  other  side  of  Doc- 
tor Hasmer.  But  that  had  seemed  foolish.  Making 
too  much  of  it.  Betty  hadn't  placed  the  chairs;  the 
deck  steward  had  done  that.  Besides  she  hadn't  once 
looked  at  the  man;  probably  hadn't  thought  of  him; 


12  HILLS  OF  HAN 

had  been  quite  absorbed  in  her  sketching — bits  of  the 
hilly  shore,  an  island  mirrored  in  glass,  a  becalmed 
junk. 

A  youngish  man,  hatless,  with  blond  curls  and  a 
slightly  professional  smile,  came  up  from  the  after 
hatch  and  advanced  along  the  deck,  eagerly  searching 
the  row  of  rug-wrapped,  recumbent  figures  in  deck 
chairs.  Before  the  Hasmers  he  stopped  with  delighted 
greetings.  It  came  out  that  he  was  a  Mr.  Harting,  a 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  worker  in  Burmah,  traveling  second-class. 

"I  hadn't  seen  the  passenger  list,  Mrs.  Hasmer,  and 
didn't  know  you  were  aboard.  But  there's  a  Chinese 
boy  sitting  next  to  me  at  table.  He  has  put  in  a  year 
or  so  at  Tokio  University,  and  speaks  a  little  English. 
He  comes  from  your  city,  Miss  Doane.  Or  so  he 
seems  to  think.  T'ainan-fu." 

Betty  inclined  her  head. 

"It  was  he  who  showed  me  the  passenger  list.  At 
one  time,  he  says,  he  lived  in  your  father's  household." 

"What  is  his  name  ?"  asked  Betty  politely. 

"Li  Hsien — something  or  other."  Mr.  Harting  was 
searching  his  pockets  for  a  copy  of  the  list. 

"I  knew  Li  Hsien  very  well,"  said  Betty.  "We  used 
to  play  together." 

"So  I  gathered.  May  I  bring  him  up  here  to  see 
you?" 

Betty  would  have  replied  at  once  in  the  affirmative, 
but  six  weeks  of  companionship  with  Mrs.  Hasmer 
had  taught  her  that  such  decisions  were  not  expected 


THE  SOLITARY  13 

of  her.    So  now,  with  a  vague  smile  of  acquiescence, 
she  directed  the  inquiry  to  the  older  woman. 

"Certainly,"  cried  Mrs.  Hasmer,  "do  bring  him!" 
As  he  moved  away,  Betty,  before  settling  back  in 
her  chair,  glanced,  once,  very  demurely,  to  her  left, 
where  Jonathan  Brachey  lay  in  what  might  have  been 
described,  from  outer  appearances,  supercilious  com- 
fort. 

He  hadn't  so  much  as  lifted  an  eyelid.  He  wasn't 
listening.  He  didn't  care.  It  was  nothing  to  him  that 
Betty  Doane  was  no  idle,  spoiled  girl  tourist,  nothing 
that  she  could  draw  with  a  gifted  pencil,  nothing  that 
she  knew  Chinese  students  at  Tokio  University,  and 
herself  lived  at  T'ainan-fu!  ...  It  wasn't  that 
Betty  consciously  formulated  any  such  thoughts.  But 
the  man  had  an  effect  on  her;  made  her  uncomfort- 
able; she  wished  he'd  move  his  chair  around  to  the 
other  side  of  the  ship. 

3 

Li  Hsien  proved  to  be  quite  a  young  man,  all  of 
twenty  or  twenty-one.  He  had  spectacles  now,  and 
gold  in  his  teeth.  He  wore  the  conventional  blue  robe, 
black  skull-cap  with  red  button,  and  queue.  More 
than  four  years  were  yet  to  elapse  before  the  great 
revolution  of  1911,  with  its  wholesale  queue-cutting 
and  its  rather  frantic  adoption,  on  the  part  of  the 
better-to-do,  of  Western  clothing — or,  rather,  of  what 
they  supposed  was  Western  clothing.  .  .  .  He  was 


14  HILLS  OF  HAN 

tall,  slim,  smiling.  He  shook  hands  with  Betty,  West- 
ern fashion ;  and  bowed  with  courtly  dignity  to  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Hasmer. 

His  manner  had  an  odd  effect  on  Betty.  For  six 
years  now  she  had  lived  in  Orange.  She  had  passed 
through  the  seventh  and  eighth  grades  of  the  public 
school  and  followed  that  with  a  complete  course  of 
four  years  in  high  school.  She  had  fallen  naturally 
and  whole-heartedly  into  the  life  of  a  nice  girl  in  an 
American  suburb.  She  had  gone  to  parties,  joined 
societies,  mildly  entangled  herself  with  a  series  of  boy 
admirers.  Despite  moderate  but  frank  poverty  she  had 
been  popular.  And  in  this  healthy,  active  young  life 
she  had  very  nearly  forgotten  the  profoundly  different 
nature  of  her  earlier  existence.  But  now  that  earlier 
feeling  for  life  was  coming  over  her  like  a  wave. 
After  all,  her  first  thirteen  years  had  been  lived  out  in 
a  Chinese  city.  And  they  were  the  most  impression- 
able years. 

It  was  by  no  means  a  pleasant  sensation.  She  had 
never  loved  China;  had  simply  endured  it,  knowing 
little  else.  America  she  loved.  It  was  of  her  blood, 
of  her  instinct.  But  now  it  was  abruptly  slipping  out 
of  her  grasp — school,  home,  the  girls,  the  boys,  long 
evenings  of  chatter  and  song  on  a  "front  porch," 
picnics  on  that  ridge  known  locally  as  "the  mountain," 
matinees  in  New  York,  glorious  sunset  visions  of  high 
buildings  from  a  ferry-boat,  a  thrilling,  ice-caked  river 
in  winter-time,  the  misty  beauties  of  the  Newark  mead- 
ows— all  this  was  curiously  losing  its  vividness  in  her 


THE  SOLITARY  15 

mind,  and  drab  old  China  was  slipping  stealthily  but 
swiftly  into  its  place. 

She  knit  her  brows.  She  was  suddenly  helpless, 
in  a  poignantly  disconcerting  way.  A  word  came — 
rootless.  That  was  it;  she  was  rootless.  For  an 
instant  she  had  to  fight  back  the  tears  that  seldom 
came  in  the  daytime. 

But  then  she  looked  again  at  Li  Hsien. 

He  was  smiling.  It  came  to  her,  fantastically,  that 
he,  too,  was  rootless.  And  yet  he  smiled.  She  knew, 
instantly,  that  his  feelings  were  quite  as  fine  as  hers. 
He  was  sensitive,  strung  high.  He  had  been  that  sort 
of  boy.  For  that  matter  the  Chinese  had  been  a  cul- 
tured people  when  the  whites  were  crude  barbarians. 
She  knew  that.  She  couldn't  have  put  it  into  words, 
but  she  knew  it.  And  so  she,  too,  smiled.  And  when 
she  spoke,  asking  him  to  sit  in  the  vacant  chair  next 
to  her,  she  spoke  without  a  thought,  in  Chinese,  the 
middle  Hansi  dialect. 

And  then  Mr.  Jonathan  Brachey  looked  up,  turned 
squarely  around  and  stared  at  her  for  one  brief  instant. 
After  which  he  recollected  himself  and  turned  abruptly 
back. 

Mr.  Harting  dropped  down  on  the  farther  side  of 
Doctor  Hasmer.  Which  left  his  good  wife  between 
the  two  couples,  each  now  deep  in  talk. 

Mrs.  Hasmer's  Chinese  vocabulary  was  confined  to 
a  limited  number  of  personal  and  household  terms; 
and  even  these  were  in  the  dialect  of  eastern  Szechwan. 
Just  as  a  matter  of  taste,  of  almost  elementary  taste, 


16  HILLS  OF  HAN 

it  seemed  to  her  that  Betty  should  keep  the  conversa- 
tion, or  most  of  it,  in  English.  She  went  so  far  as  to 
lean  over  the  arm  of  her  chair  and  smile  in  a  perturbed 
manner  at  the  oddly  contrasting  couple  who  chatted 
so  easily  and  pleasantly  in  the  heathen  tongue.  She 
almost  reached  the  point  of  speaking  to  Betty;  gently, 
of  course.  But  the  girl  clearly  had  no  thought  of 
possible  impropriety.  She  was  laughing  now — ap- 
parently at  some  gap  in  her  vocabulary — and  the  bland 
young  man  with  the  spectacles  and  the  pigtail  was 
humorously  supplying  the  proper  word. 

Mrs.  Hasmer  decided  not  to  speak.  She  lay  back 
in  her  chair.  The  wrinkles  in  her  forehead  deepened 
a  little.  On  the  other  side  Mr.  Halting  was  describ- 
ing enthusiastically  a  new  and  complicated  table  that 
was  equipped  with  every  imaginable  device  for  the 
demonstrating  of  experiments  in  physics  to  Burmese 
youth.  It  could  be  packed,  he  insisted,  for  transport 
from  village  to  village,  in  a  crate  no  larger  than  the 
table  itself. 

And  now,  again,  she  caught  the  musical  intonation 
of  the  young  Chinaman.  Betty,  surprisingly  direct 
and  practical  in  manner  if  unintelligible  in  speech, 
was  asking  questions,  which  Li  Hsien  answered  in 
turn,  easily,  almost  languidly,  but  with  unfailing  good 
nature.  Though  there  were  a  few  moments  during 
which  he  spoke  rapidly  and  rather  earnestly. 

Mrs.  Hasmer  next  became  aware  of  the  odd  ef- 
fect the  little  scene  was  plainly  having  on  Jonathan 
Brachey.  He  fidgeted  in  his  chair;  got  up  and  stood 


THE  SOLITARY  17 

at  the  rail;  paced  the  deck,  twice  passing  close  to  the 
comfortably  extended  feet  of  the  Hasmer  party  and 
so  ostentatiously  not  looking  at  them  as  to  distract 
momentarily  the  attention  even  of  the  deeply  engrossed 
Betty.  Mr.  Harting,  even,  looked  up.  After  all  of  which 
the  man,  looking  curiously  stern,  or  irritated,  or  (Betty 
decided)  something  unpleasant,  sat  again  in  his  chair. 

Then,  a  little  later,  Mr.  Harting  and  Li  Hsien  took 
their  leave  and  returned  to  the  second-class  quarters, 
astern. 

Mrs.  Hasmer  thought,  for  a  moment,  that  perhaps 
now  was  the  time  to  suggest  that  English  be  made  the 
common  tongue  in  the  future.  But  Betty's  eager 
countenance  disarmed  her.  She  sighed.  And  sighed 
again;  for  the  girl,  stirred  by  what  she  was  saying, 
had  unconsciously  raised  her  voice.  And  that  tall 
man  was  listening. 

"It's  queer  how  fast  things  are  changing  out  here," 
thus  Betty.  "Li  Hsien  is — you'd  never  guess ! — a  So- 
cialist !  I  asked  him  why  he  isn't  staying  out  the  year 
at  Tokio  University,  and  he  said  he  was  called  home 
to  help  the  Province.  Think  of  it — that  boy!  They've 
got  into  some  trouble  over  a  foreign  mining  syndi- 
cate—" 

"The  Ho  Shan  Company,"  explained  Doctor  Has- 
mer. 

Betty  nodded. 

"They've  been  operating  rather  extensively  in 
Honan  and  southern  Chihli,"  the  educator  continued, 
"and  I  heard  last  year  that  they've  made  a  fresh  agree- 


18  HILLS  OF  HAN 

ment  with  the  Imperial  Government  giving  them  prac- 
tically a  monopoly  of  the  coal  and  iron  mining  up  there 
in  the  Hansi  Hills." 

"Yes,  Doctor  Hasmer,  and  he  says  that  there's  a 
good  deal  of  feeling  in  the  province.  They've  had  one 
or  two  mass  meetings  of  the  gentry  and  people.  He 
thinks  they'll  send  a  protest  to  Peking.  He  believes 
that  the  company  got  the  agreement  through  bribery." 

"Not  at  all  unlikely,"  remarked  Doctor  Hasmer 
mildly.  "I  don't  know  that  any  other  way  has  yet  been 
discovered  of  obtaining  commercial  privileges  from  the 
Imperial  Government.  The  Ho  Shan  Company  is 
.  .  .  let  me  see  ...  as  I  recall,  it  was  organ- 
ized by  that  Italian  promoter,  Count  Logatti.  I  be- 
lieve he  went  to  Germany,  Belgium  and  France  for 
the  capital." 

"Li  has  become  an  astonishing  young  man,"  said 
Betty  more  gravely.  "He  talks  about  revolutions  and 
republics.  He  doesn't  think  the  Manchus  can  last 
much  longer.  The  southern  provinces  are  ready  for 
the  revolution  now,  he  says — " 

"That,"  remarked  Doctor  Hasmer,  "is  a  little 
sweeping." 

"Li  is  very  sweeping,"  replied  Betty.  "And  he's 
going  back  now  to  T'ainan-fu  for  some  definite  reason. 
I  couldn't  make  out  what.  I  asked  if  he  would  be 
coming  in  to  see  father,  and  he  said,  probably  not; 
that  there  wouldn't  be  any  use  in  it.  Then  I  asked 
him  if  he  was  still  a  Christian,  and  I  think  he  laughed 
at  me.  He  wouldn't  say." 


THE  SOLITARY  19 

The  conversation  was  broken  by  the  appearance  of 
a  pleasant  Englishman,  an  importer  of  silks,  by  the 
name  of  Obie.  He  had  been  thrown  with  the  Has- 
mers  and  Betty  in  one  of  their  sight-seeing  jaunts 
about  Tokio.  Mr.  Obie  wore  spats,  and  a  scarf  pin 
and  cuff  links  of  human  bone  from  Borneo  set  in  cir- 
clets of  beaded  gold.  His  light,  usually  amusing  talk 
was  liberally  sprinkled  with  crisp  phrases  in  pidgin- 
English. 

He  spoke  now  of  the  beauties  of  the  Inland  Sea, 
and  resumed  his  stroll  about  the  deck.  After  a  few 
turns,  he  went  into  the  smoking-room. 

Jonathan  Brachey,  still  with  that  irritably  nervous 
manner,  watched  him  intently;  finally  got  up  and  fol- 
lowed him,  passing  the  Hasmers  and  Betty  with  nose 
held  high. 

4 

It  was  early  afternoon,  when  Mrs.  Hasmer  and 
Betty  were  dozing  in  their  chairs,  that  Mr.  Obie,  look- 
ing slightly  puzzled,  came  again  to  them.  He  held 
a  card  between  thumb  and  forefinger. 

"Miss  Doane,"  he  said,  "this  gentleman  asks  per- 
mission to  be  presented." 

Mrs.  Hasmer's  hand  went  out  a  little  way  to  receive 
the  card ;  but  Betty  innocently  took  it. 

"Mr.  Jonathan  Brachey,"  she  read  aloud.  Then 
added,  with  a  pretty  touch  of  color — "But  how  funny ! 
He  was  with  us  yesterday,  and  wouldn't  talk.  And 
now.  " 


20  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"My  go  catchee?"  asked  Mr.  Obie. 

To  which  little  pleasantry  Betty  responded,  looking 
very  bright  and  pretty,  with — "Can  do !" 

"She  gives  out  too  much,"  thought  Mrs.  Hasmer; 
deciding  then  and  there  that  the  meeting  should  be 
brief  and  the  conversation  triangular. 

Mr.  Obie  brought  him,  formally,  from  the  smoking- 
room. 

He  bowed  stiffly.  Betty  checked  her  natural  impulse 
toward  a  hearty  hand-grip. 

Mrs.  Hasmer,  feeling  hurried,  a  thought  breathless, 
meant  to  offer  him  her  husband's  chair ;  but  all  in  the 
moment  Betty  had  him  down  beside  her. 

Then  came  stark  silence.  The  man  stared  out  at  the 
islands. 

Betty,  finding  her  portfolio  on  her  lap,  fingered  it. 
Then  this : 

"I  must  begin,  Miss  Doane,  with  an  apology.    .    .    ." 

Betty's  responsive  face  blanched.  "What  a  dread- 
ful man!"  she  thought.  His  voice  was  rather  strong, 
dry,  hard,  with,  even,  a  slight  rasp  in  it. 

But  he  drove  heavily  on : 

"This  morning,  while  not  wishing  to  appear  as  an 
eavesdropper  .  .  .  that  is  to  say  .  .  .  the  fact 
is,  Miss  Doane,  I  am  a  journalist,  and  am  at  present 
on  my  way  to  China  to  make  an  investigation  of  the 
political — one  might  even  term  it  the  social — unrest 
that  appears  to  be  cropping  out  rather  extensively  in 
the  southern  provinces  and  even,  a  little  here  and  there, 
in  the  North." 


THE  SOLITARY  21 

He  was  dreadful !  Stilted,  clumsy,  slow !  He 
hunted  painstakingly  for  words;  and  at  each  long 
pause  Betty's  quick  young  nerves  tightened  and  tight- 
ened, mentally  groping  with  him  until  the  hunted  word 
was  run  to  earth. 

He  was  pounding  on : 

"This  morning  I  overheard  you  talking  with  that 
young  Chinaman.  It  is  evident  that  you  speak  the 
language." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Betty  found  herself  saying,  "I  do." 

Not  a  word  about  the  drawing. 

"This  young  man,  I  gather,  is  in  sympathy  with  the 
revolutionary  spirit." 

"He — he  seems  to  be,"  said  Betty. 

"Now  .  .  .  Miss  Doane  .  .  .  this  is  of  course 
an  imposition  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  no,"  breathed  Betty  weakly. 

".  .  .  it  is,  of  course,  an  imposition  ...  it 
would  be  a  service  I  could  perhaps  never  repay  .  .  ." 

This  pause  lasted  so  long  that  she  heard  herself 
murmuring,  "No,  really,  not  at  all!" — and  then  felt 
the  color  creeping  to  her  face. 

".  .  .  but  if  I  might  ask  you  to  ...  but  let 
me  put  it  in  this  way — the  young  man  is  precisely  the 
type  I  have  come  out  here  to  study.  You  speak  in 
the  vernacular,  and  evidently  understand  him  almost 
as  a  native  might.  It  is  unlikely  I  shall  find  in  China 
many  such  natural  interpreters  as  yourself.  And  of 
course  .  .  .  if  it  is  thinkable  that  you  would  be  so 
extremely  kind  as  to  .  .  .  why,  of  course,  I  ..." 


22  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Heavens !"  thought  Betty,  in  a  panic,  "he's  going  to 
offer  to  pay  me.  I  mustn't  be  rude." 

The  man  plodded  on:  ".  .  .  why,  of  course,  it 
would  be  a  real  pleasure  to  mention  your  assistance 
in  the  preface  of  my  book." 

It  was  partly  luck,  luck  and  innate  courtesy,  that 
she  didn't  laugh  aloud.  She  broke,  as  it  was,  into 
words,  saving  herself  and  the  situation. 

"You  want  me  to  act  as  interpreter?  Of  course  Li 
knows  a  little  English." 

"Would  he — er — know  enough  English  for  s'erious 
conversation?" 

"No,"  mused  Betty  aloud,  "I  don't  think  he  would." 

"Of  course,  Miss  Doane,  I  quite  realize  that  to  take 
up  your  time  in  this  way.  .  .  ." 

There  he  stopped.  He  was  frowning  now,  and  ap- 
parently studying  out  the  structural  details  of  a  huge 
junk  that  lay  only  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  reflected 
minutely,  exquisitely — curving  hull  and  deck  cargo, 
timbered  stern,  bat-wing  sails — in  the  glass-like  water. 

"I'll  be  glad  to  do  what  I  can,"  said  Betty,  help- 
lessly. Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  became  aware 
that  Mrs.  Hasmer  was  stirring  uncomfortably  on  her 
other  hand,  and  added,  quickly,  as  much  out  of  ner- 
vousness as  anything  else — "We  could  arrange  to  have 
Li  come  up  here  in  the  morning." 

"We  shall  be  coaling  at  Nagasaki  in  the  morning," 
said  he,  abruptly,  as  if  that  settled  that. 

"Well,  of  course,     .    .    .    this  afternoon.     .     .     ." 

"My  dear,"  began  Mrs.  Hasmer. 


THE  SOLITARY  23 

"This  afternoon  would  be  better."  Thus  Mr. 
Brachey.  "Though  I  can  not  tell  you  what  hesita- 
tion .  .  ." 

"I  suppose  we  could  find  a  quiet  corner  somewhere," 
said  Betty.  "In  the  social  hall,  perhaps." 

It  was  then,  stirred  to  positive  act,  that  Mrs.  Has- 
mer  spoke  out. 

"I  think  you'd  better  stay  out  here  with  us,  my 
dear." 

To  which  the  hopelessly  self-absorbed  Mr.  Brachey 
replied : 

"I  really  must  have  quiet  for  this  work.  We  will 
sit  inside,  if  you  don't  mind." 


At  half  past  four  Mrs.  Hasmer  sent  her  husband  to 
look  into  the  situation.  He  reported  that  they  were 
hard  at  it.  Betty  looked  a  little  tired,  but  was  labori- 
ously repeating  Li  Hsien's  words,  in  English,  in  order 
that  Mr.  Brachey  might  take  them  down  in  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  sort  of  shorthand.  Doctor  Hasmer 
didn't  see  how  he  could  say  anything.  Not  very  well. 
They  hadn't  so  much  as  noticed  him,  though  he  stood 
near  by  for  a  few  moments. 

Which  report  Mrs.  Hasmer  found  masculine  and  un- 
satisfactory. At  five  she  went  herself;  took  her  Bat- 
tenberg  hoop  and  sat  near  by.  Betty  saw  her,  and 
smiled.  She  looked  distinctly  a  little  wan. 

The  journalist  ignored  Mrs.  Hasmer.     He  was  a 


24  HILLS  OF  HAN 

merciless  driver.  Whenever  Betty's  attention  wan- 
dered, as  it  had  begun  doing,  he  put  his  questions 
bruskly,  even  sharply,  to  call  her  back  to  the  task. 

Four  bells  sounded,  up  forward.  Mrs.  Hasmer 
started ;  and,  as  always  when  she  heard  the  ship's  bell, 
consulted  her  watch.  Six  o'clock!  .  .  .  She  put 
down  her  hoop;  fidgetted;  got  up;  sat  down  again; 
told  herself  she  must  consider  the  situation  calmly. 
It  must  be  taken  in  hand,  of  course.  The  man  was  a 
mannerless  brute.  He  had  distinctly  encroached.  He 
would  encroach  further.  He  must  be  met  firmly,  at 
once.  She  tried  to  think  precisely  how  he  could  be  met. 

She  got  up  again;  stood  over  them.  She  didn't 
know  that  her  face  was  a  lens  through  which  any  and 
all  might  read  her  perturbed  spirit. 

Betty  glanced  up;  smiled  faintly;  drew  a  long 
breath. 

Li  Hsien  rose  and  bowed,  clasping  his  hands  before 
his  breast. 

Mr.  Brachey  was  writing. 

Mrs.  Hasmer  had  tried  to  construct  a  little  speech 
that,  however  final,  would  meet  the  forms  of  courtesy. 
It  left  her  now.  She  said  with  blank  firmness : 

"Come,  Betty!" 

"One  moment!"  protested  Mr.  Brachey.  "Will  you 
please  ask  him,  Miss  Doane,  whether  he  believes  that 
the  general  use  of  opium  has  appreciably  lowered  the 
vitality  of  the  Chinese  people?  That  is,  to  put  it  con- 
versely, whether  the  curtailment  of  production  is  going 
to  leave  a  people  too  weakened  to  act  strongly  in  a  mili- 


THE  SOLITARY  25 

tary  or  even  political  way?  Surveying  the  empire  as 
a  whole,  of  course." 

Betty's  thoughts,  which  had  wandered  hopelessly 
afield,  came  struggling  back. 

"I — I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid  I  didn't 
quite  hear." 

"I  must  ask  you  to  come  with  me,  Betty,"  said  Mrs. 
Hasmer. 

At  this,  looking  heavily  disappointed,  Mr.  Brachey 
rose ;  ran  a  long  bony  hand  through  his  thick  hair. 

"We  could  take  it  up  in  the  morning,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing from  the  bland  young  Chinaman  to  the  plainly  con- 
fused girl.  "That  is,  if  Miss  Doane  wouldn't  mind 
staying  on  the  ship.  I  presume  she  has  seen  Naga- 
saki." 

His  perturbed  eyes  moved  at  last  to  the  little  elderly 
lady  who  had  seemed  so  colorless  and  mild ;  met  hers, 
which  were,  of  a  sudden,  snapping  coals. 

"You  will  not  take  it  up  again,  sir !"  cried  Mrs.  Has- 
mer; and  left  with  the  girl. 

The  Chinaman  smiled,  clasped  his  hands,  bowed 
with  impenetrable  courtesy,  and  withdrew  to  his  quar- 
ters. 

Mr.  Brachey,  alone,  looked  over  his  notes  with  a 
frown ;  shook  his  head ;  went  down  to  dress  for  dinner. 


Late  that  night  Betty  sat  in  her  tiny  stateroom,  in- 
dulging rebellious  thoughts.  It  was  time,  after  an 
awkwardly  silent  evening,  to  go  to  bed.  But  instead 


26  HILLS  OF  HAN 

she  now  slipped  into  her  heavy  traveling  coat,  pulled 
on  her  tam-o'-shanter,  tiptoed  past  the  Hasmers'  door 
and  went  out  on  deck. 

It  was  dim  and  peaceful  there.  The  throb  of  the 
engines  and  the  wash  of  water  along  the  hull  were  the 
only  sounds.  They  were  in  the  strait  now,  heading  out 
to  sea. 

She  walked  around  the  deck,  and  around.  It  was 
her  first  free  moment  since  they  left  the  Pacific  ship 
at  Yokohama.  After  that  very  quietly — sweetly,  even 
— the  chaperonage  of  Mrs.  Hasmer  had  tightened.  For 
Betty  the  experience  was  new  and  difficult.  She  felt 
that  she  ought  to  submit.  But  the  rebellion  in  her 
breast,  if  wrong,  was  real.  She  would  walk  it  off. 

Then  she  met  Mr.  Brachey  coming  out  of  the  smok- 
ing-room. Both  stopped. 

"Oh!"  said  he. 

"I  was  just  getting  a  breath  of  air,"  said  she. 

Then  they  moved  to  the  rail  and  leaned  there,  gaz- 
ing off  at  the  faintly  moonlit  land. 

He  asked,  in  his  cold  way,  how  she  had  learned 
Chinese. 

"I  was  born  at  T'ainan-fu,"  she  explained.  "My 
father  is  a  missionary." 

"Oh,"  said  he.   And  again,  "Oh!" 

Then  they  fell  silent.  Her  impulse  at  first  was  to 
make  talk.  She  did  murmur,  "I  really  ought  to  be 
going  in."  But  he,  apparently,  found  talk  unnecessary. 
And  she  stayed  on,  looking  now  down  at  the  iridescent 


THE  SOLITARY  27 

foam  slipping  past  the  black  hull,  now  up  into  the 
luminous  night. 

Then  he  remarked,  casually,  "Shall  we  walk?"  And 
she  found  herself  falling  into  step  with  him. 

They  stopped,  a  little  later,  up  forward  and  stood 
looking  out  over  the  forecastle  deck. 

"Some  day  I'm  going  to  ask  the  chief  officer  to  let 
me  go  out  there,"  said  she. 

"It  isn't  necessary  to  ask  him,"  replied  Mr.  Brachey. 
"Come  along." 

"Oh,"  murmured  Betty,  half  in  protest— "really  ?" 
But  she  went,  thrilled  now,  more  than  a  little  guilty, 
down  the  steps,  past  hatches  and  donkey  engines, 
up  other  steps,  under  and  over  a  tangle  of  cables, 
over  an  immense  anchor,  to  seats  on  coils  of  rope  near 
the  very  bow. 

The  situation  amounted  already  to  a  secret.  Mrs. 
Hasmer  couldn't  be  told,  mused  Betty.  The  fact  was 
a  little  perplexing.  But  it  stood. 

Neither  had  mentioned  Mrs.  Hasmer.  But  now  he 
said: 

"I  was  rude  to-day,  of  course." 

"No,"  said  she.   "No." 

"Oh,  yes!  I'm  that  way.  The  less  I  see  of  people 
the  better." 

This  touched  the  half -fledged  woman  in  her. 

"You're  interested  in  your  work,"  said  she  gently. 
"That's  all.  And  it's  right.  You're  not  a  trifler." 

"I'm  a  lone  wolf." 


28  HILLS  OF  HAN 

She  was  beginning  to  find  him  out-and-out  interest- 
ing. 

"You  travel  a  good  deal,"  she  ventured  demurely. 

"All  the  time.   I  prefer  it." 

"Always  alone  ?" 

"Always." 

"You  don't  get  lonesome?" 

"Oh,  yes.   But  what  does  it  matter?" 

She  considered  this.  "You  go  into  dangerous 
places." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"You  traveled  among  the  head-hunters  of  Borneo." 

"How  did  you  find  that  out?" 

"There's  anadvertismentof  that  book  in  To-morrow 
in  India." 

"Oh,  have  you  read  that  thing?" 

"Part  of  it.   I    ..." 

"You  found  it  dull." 

""Well    .    .    .    it's  a  little  over  my  head." 

"It's  over  everybody's.   Mine." 

She  nearly  laughed  at  this.  But  he  seemed  not  to 
think  of  it  as  humor. 

"Aren't  you  a  little  afraid,  sometimes — going  into 
such  dangerous  places  all  alone?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"But  you  might  be  hurt — or  even — killed." 

"What's  the  difference?" 

Startled,  she  looked  straight  up  at  him ;  then  dropped 
her  eyes.  She  waited  for  him  to  explain,  but  he  was 
gazing  moodily  out  at  the  water  ahead. 


THE  SOLITARY  29 

The  soft  night  air  wrapped  them  about  like  dream- 
velvet.  Adventure  was  astir,  and  romance.  Betty,  en- 
chanted, looked  lazily  back  at  the  white  midships  decks, 
bridge  and  wheelhouse,  at  the  mysterious  rigging  and 
raking  masts,  at  the  foremost  of  the  huge  funnels 
pouring  out  great  rolling  clouds  of  smoke.  The  en- 
gines throbbed  and  throbbed.  Back  there  somewhere 
the  ship's  bell  struck,  eight  times  for  midnight. 

"I  don't  care  much  for  missionaries,"  said  Mr. 
Brachey. 

"You'd  like  father." 

"Perhaps." 

"He's  a  wonderful  man.  He's  six  feet  five.  And 
strong." 

"It's  a  job  for  little  men.  Little  souls.  With  little 
narrow  eyes." 

"Oh!    .    .     .    No!" 

"Why  try  to  change  the  Chinese  ?  Their  philosophy 
is  finer  than  ours.  And  works  better.  I  like  them." 

"So  do  I.  But    .    .    ."  She  wished  her  father  could 
be  there  to  meet  the  man's  talk.   There  must  surely  be 
strong  arguments  on  the  missionary  side,  if  one  only 
knew  them.  She  finally  came  out  with : 
.  "But  they're  heathen !" 

"Oh,  yesV' 

"They're — they're  polygamous !" 

"Why  not?" 

"But  Mr.  Brachey  .  .  ."  She  couldn't  go  on  with 
this.  The  conversation  was  growing  rather  alarming. 

"So  are  the  Americans  polygamous.   And  the  other 


30  HILLS  OF  HAN 

white  peoples.  Only  they  call  it  by  other  names.  You 
get  tired  of  it.  The  Chinese  are  more  honest." 

"I  wonder,"  said  she,  suddenly  steady  and  shrewd, 
"if  you  haven't  stayed  away  too  long." 

His  reply  was : 

"Perhaps." 

"If  you  live — you  know,  all  by  yourself,  and  for 
nobody  in  the  world  except  yourself — I  mean,  if 
there's  nobody  you're  responsible  for,  nobody  you  love 
and  take  care  of  and  suffer  for  .  .  ."  The  sen- 
tence was  getting  something  involved.  She  paused, 
puckering  her  brows. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"Why,  I  only  meant,  isn't  there  danger  of  a  person 
like  that  becoming — well,  just  selfish." 

"I  am  selfish." 

"But  you  don't  want  to  be." 

"Oh,  but  I  do!" 

"I  can  hardly  believe  that." 

"Dependence  on  others  is  as  bad  as  gratitude.  It  is 
a  demand,  a  weakness.  Strength  is  better.  If  each  of 
us  stood  selfishly  alone,  it  would  be  a  cleaner,  better 
world.  There  wouldn't  be  any  of  this  mess  of  obliga- 
tion, one  to  another.  No  running  up  of  spiritual  debt. 
And  that's  the  worst  kind." 

"But  suppose,"  she  began,  a  little  afraid  of  getting 
into  depths  from  which  it  might  be  difficult  to  extricate 
herself,  "suppose — well,  you  were  married,  and  there 
were — well,  little  children.  Surely  you'd  have  to  feel 
responsible  for  them." 


THE  SOLITARY  31 

"Surely,"  said  he  curtly,  "it  isn't  necessary  for  every 
man  to  bring  children  into  the  world.  Surely  that's  not 
the  only  job." 

"But — but  take  another  case.  Suppose  you  had  a 
friend,  a  younger  man,  and  he  was  in  trouble — drink- 
ing, maybe;  anything! — wouldn't  you  feel  responsible 
for  him?" 

"Not  at  all.  That's  the  worst  kind  of  dependence. 
The  only  battles  a  man  wins  are  the  ones  he  wins 
alone.  If  any  friend  of  mine — man  or  woman — can't 
win  his  own  battles — or  hers — he  or  she  had  better  go. 
Anywhere.  To  hell,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

He  quite  took  her  breath  away. 

One  bell  sounded. 

"It's  perfectly  dreadful,"  said  she.  "If  Mrs.  Has- 
mer  knew  I  was  out  here  at  this  time  of  night, 
she'd  .  .  ." 

This  sentence  died  out.  They  went  back. 

"Good  night,"  said  she. 

She  felt  that  he  must  think  her  very  young  and  sim- 
ple. It  seemed  odd  that  he  should  waste  so  much  time 
on  her.  No  other  man  she  had  ever  met  was  like  him. 
Hesitantly,  desiring  at  least  a  touch  of  friendliness,  on 
an  impulse,  she  extended  her  hand. 

He  took  it ;  held  it  a  moment  firmly ;  then  said : 

"Will  you  give  me  that  drawing?" 

"Yes,"  said  she. 

"Now?" 

"Yes."  And  she  tiptoed  twice  again  past  the  Has- 
mers'  door. 


32  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Please  sign  it,"  said  he,  and  produced  a  pencil. 

"But  it  seems  so  silly.  I  mean,  it's  nothing,  this 
sketch." 

"Please!" 

She  signed  it,  said  good  night  again,  and  hurried  off, 
her  heart  in  a  curious  flutter. 


CHAPTER  II 


ROMANCE 


UNWILLING  either  to  confess  like  a  naughty 
child  or  to  go  on  keeping  this  rather  large  and 
distinctly  exciting  secret  under  cover,  Betty,  at  tea- 
time,  brought  the  matter  to  an  issue.  The  morning 
ashore  had  been  difficult.  Mr.  Brachey  had  severely 
ignored  her,  going  about  Nagasaki  alone,  lunching  in 
austere  solitude  at  the  hotel. 

She  said,  settling  herself  in  the  deck  chair: 

"Mrs.  Hasmer,  will  you  ask  Mr.  Brachey  to  have 
tea  with  us?" 

After  a  long  silence  the  older  woman  asked,  stiffly : 

"Why,  my  dear?" 

Betty  compressed  her  lips. 

Doctor  Hasmer  saved  the  situation  by  saying 
quietly,  "I'll  ask  him." 

It  was  awkward  from  the  first.  The  man  was  angu- 
lar and  unyielding.  And  Mrs.  Hasmer,  though  she 
tried,  couldn't  let  him  alone.  She  was  determined  to 
learn  whether  he  was  married.  She  led  up  to  the  di- 
rect question  more  obyiously  than  she  knew.  Finally 
it  came.  They  were  speaking  of  his  announced  plan 
to  travel  extensively  in  the  interior  of  China. 

33 


34  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"It  must  be  quite  delightful  to  wander  as  you  do," 
she  said.  "Of  course,  if  one  has  ties  .  .  .  you,  I 
take  it,  are  an  unmarried  man,  Mr.  Brachey?" 

Betty  had  to  lower  her  face  to  hide  the  color  that 
came.  If  only  Mrs.  Hasmer  had  a  little  humor!  She 
was  a  dear  kind  woman ;  but  this !  .  .  . 

The  journalist  looked,  impassively  enough,  but  di- 
rectly, at  his  questioner. 

She  met  his  gaze.  They  were  flint  on  steel,  these 
two  natures. 

"You  are  obviously  not  married,"  she  repeated. 

He  looked  down  at  his  teacup;  thinking.  Then, 
abruptly,  he  set  it  down  on  the  deck,  got  up,  muttered 
something  that  sounded  like,  "If  you  will  excuse  me 
.  .  .  "  and  strode  away. 

Betty  went  early  to  her  cabin  that  evening. 

She  had  no  more  than  switched  on  her  light  when 
the  Chinese  steward  came  with  a  letter. 

She  locked  the  door  then,  and  looked  at  the  unfa- 
miliar handwriting.  It  was  small,  round,  clear;  the 
hand  of  a  particular  man,  a  meticulous  man,  who  has 
written  much  with  a  pen. 

She  turned  down  the  little  wicker  seat.  Her  cheeks 
were  suddenly  hot,  her  pulse  bounding  high. 

She  skimmed  it,  at  first,  clear  to  the  signature, 
"Jonathan  Brachey";  then  went  back  and  read  it 
through,  slowly. 

"I  was  rude  again  just  now,"  (it  began).  "As  I 
told  you  last  night,  it  is  best  for  me  not  to  see  people. 


ROMANCE  35 

I  am  not  a  social  being.  Clearly,  from  this  time  on, 
it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  talk  with  this  Mrs.  Has- 
mer.  I  shall  not  try  again. 

"I  could  not  answer  her  question.  But  to  you  I 
must  speak.  It  would  be  difficult  even  to  do  this  if 
we  were  to  meet  again,  and  talk.  But,  as  you  will 
readily  see,  we  must  not  meet  again,  beyond  the  merest 
greeting. 

"I  was  married  four  years  ago.  After  only  a  few 
weeks  my  wife  left  me.  The  reasons  she  gave  were 
so  flippant  as  to  be  absurd.  She  was  a  beautiful  and, 
it  has  seemed  to  me,  a  vain,  spoiled,  quite  heartless 
woman.  I  have  not  seen  her  since.  Two  years  ago 
she  became  infatuated  with  another  man,  and  wrote 
asking  me  to  consent  to  a  divorce.  I  refused  on  the 
ground  that  I  did  not  care  to  enter  into  the  legal  in- 
trigues preliminary  to  a  divorce  in  the  state  of  her 
residence.  Since  then,  I  am  told,  she  has  changed  her 
residence  to  a  state  in  which  'desertion'  is  a  legal 
ground.  But  I  have  received  no  word  of  any  actual 
move  on  her  part. 

"It  is  strange  that  I  should  be  writing  thus  frankly 
to  you.  Strange,  and  perhaps  wrong.  But  you  have 
reached  out  to  me  more  of  a  helping  hand  than  you 
will  ever  know.  Our  talk  last  night  meant  a  great 
deal  to  me.  To  you  I  doubtless  seemed  harsh  and  for- 
bidding. It  is  true  that  I  am  that  sort  of  man,  and 
therefore  am  best  alone.  It  is  seldom  that  I  meet  a 
person  with  whom  my  ideas  are  in  agreement. 

"I  trust  that  you  will  find  every  happiness  in  life. 
You  deserve  to.  You  have  the  great  gift  of  feeling. 
I  could  almost  envy  you  that.  It  is  a  quality  I  can 
perceive  without  possessing.  An  independent  mind, 
a  strong  gift  of  logic,  stands  between  me  and  all  human 
affection.  I  must  say  what  I  think,  not  what  I  feel. 


36  HILLS  OF  HAN 

I  make  people  unhappy.  The  only  corrective  to  such  a 
nature  is  work,  and,  whenever  possible,  solitude.  But 
I  do  not  solicit  your  pity.  I  find  myself,  my  thoughts, 
excellent  company. 

"With  your  permission  I  will  keep  the  drawing.    It 
will  have  a  peculiar  and  pleasant  meaning  to  me." 


Betty  lowered  the  letter,  breathing  out  the  single 
word,  "Well!" 

What  on  earth  could  she  have  said  or  done  to  give 
him  any  such  footing  in  her  life? 

She  read  it  again.    And  then  again. 

An  amazing  man ! 

She  made  ready  to  go  to  bed,  slowly,  dawdling,  try- 
ing to  straighten  out  the  curious  emotional  pressures 
on  her  mind. 

She  read  the  letter  yet  again ;  considered  it. 

Finally,  after  passing  through  many  moods  leading 
up  to  a  tender  sympathy  for  this  bleak  life,  and  then 
passing  on  into  a  state  of  sheer  nervous  excitement, 
she  deliberately  dressed  again  and  went  out  on  deck. 

He  stood  by  the  rail,  smoking. 

"You  have  my  letter?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  I've  read  it."  She  was  oddly,  happily  re- 
lieved at  finding  him. 

"You  shouldn't  have  come." 

She  had  no  answer  to  this.  It  seemed  hardly  rele- 
vant. She  smiled,  in  the  dark. 

They  fell  to  walking  the  deck.    After  a  time,  shyly, 


ROMANCE  37 

tacitly,  a  little  embarrassed,  they  went  up  forward 
again. 

The  ship  was  well  out  in  the  Yellow  Sea  now.  The 
bow  rose  and  fell  slowly,  rhythmically,  beneath  them. 

Moved  to  meet  his  letter  with  a  response  in  kind, 
she  talked  of  herself. 

"It  seems  strange  to  be  coming  back  to  China." 

"You've  been  long  away?" 

"Six  years.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  thirteen. 
Father  thought  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  be  in  the 
States.  My  uncle,  father's  brother,  was  in  the  whole- 
sale hardware  business  in  New  York,  and  lived  in 
Orange,  and  they  took  me  in.  They  were  always  nice 
to  me.  But  last  fall  Uncle  Frank  came  down  with 
rheumatic  gout.  He's  an  invalid  now.  It  must  have 
been  pretty  expensive.  And  there  was  some  trouble 
in  his  business.  They  couldn't  very  well  go  on  taking 
care  of  me,  so  father  decided  to  have  me  come  back 
to  T'ainan-fu."  She  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

He  lighted  his  pipe,  and  smoked  reflectively. 

"That  will  be  rather  hard  for  you,  won't  it?"  he 
remarked,  after  a  time.  "I  mean  for  a  person  of  your 
temperament.  You  are,  I  should  say,  almost  exactly 
my  opposite  in  every  respect.  You  like  people,  friends. 
You  are  impulsive,  doubtless  affectionate.  I  could  be 
relatively  happy,  marooned  among  a  few  hundred  mil- 
lions of  yellow  folk — though  I  could  forego  the  mis- 
sionaries. But  you  are  likely,  I  should  think,  to  be 
starved  there.  Spiritually — emotionally." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  she  quietly. 


38  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Yes."  He  thought  it  over.  "The  life  of  a  mission 
compound  isn't  exactly  gay." 

"No,  it  isn't." 

"And  you  need  gaiety." 

"I  wonder  if  I  do.  I  haven't  really  faced  it,  of 
course.  I'm  not  facing  it  now." 

"Just  think  a  moment.  You've  not  even  landed  in 
China  yet.  You're  under  no  real  restraint — still  among 
white  people,  on  a  white  man's  ship,  eating  in  Euro- 
pean hotels  at  the  ports.  You  aren't  teaching  endless 
lessons  to  yellow  children,  day  in,  day  out.  You  aren't 
shut  up  in  an  interior  city,  where  it  mightn't  even  be 
safe  for  you  to  step  outside  the  gate  house  alone.  And 
yet  you're  breaking  bounds.  Right  now — out  here 
with  me." 

Already  she  was  taking  his  curious  bluntness  for 
granted.  She  said  now,  simply,  gently : 

"I  know.  I'm  sitting  out  here  at  midnight  with  a 
married  man.  And  I  don't  seem  to  mind.  Of  course 
you're  not  exactly  married.  Still  ...  A  few  days 
ago  I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  possible." 

"Did  you  tell  the  Hasmers  that  you  were  out  here 
last  night?" 

"No." 

"Shall  you  tell  them  about  this?" 

She  thought  a  moment ;  then,  as  simply,  repeated : 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know.    It's  the  way  I  feel." 

He  nodded.   "You  feel  it's  none  of  their  business." 


ROMANCE  39 

"Well— yes." 

"Of  course,  I  ought  to  take  you  back,  now." 

"I  don't  feel  as  if  I  were  doing  wrong.  Oh,  a  little, 
but  .  .  ." 

"I  ought  to  take  you  back." 

She  rested  a  hand  on  his  arm.  It  was  no  more  than 
a  girlish  gesture.  She  didn't  notice  that  he  set  his 
teeth  and  sat  very  still. 

"I've  thought  this,  though,"  she  said.  "If  I'm  to 
meet  you  out  here  like — like  this — " 

"But  you're  not  to." 

"Well    .    .    .    here  we  are!" 

"Yes    .    .    .    here  we  are !" 

"I  was  going  to  say,  it's  dishonest,  I  think,  for 
us  to  avoid  each  other  during  the  day.  If  we're 
friends  .  .  ." 

"If  we're  friends  we'd  better  admit  it." 

"Yes.    I  meant  that." 

He  fell  to  working  at  his  pipe  with  a  pocket  knife. 
She  watched  him  until  he  was  smoking  again. 

"Mrs.  Hasmer  won't  like  it." 

"I  can't  help  that." 

"No.  Of  course."  He  smoked.  Suddenly  he  broke 
out,  with  a  gesture  so  vehement  that  it  startled  her : 

"Oh,  it's  plain  enough — we're  on  a  ship,  idling, 
dreaming,  floating  from  a  land  of  color  and  charm  and 
quaint  unreality  to  another  land  that  has  always  en- 
chanted me,  for  all  the  dirt  and  disease,  and  the  smells. 
It's  that !  Romance !  The  old  web !  It's  catching  us. 
And  we're  not  even  resisting.  No  one  could  blame 


40  HILLS  OF  HAN 

you — you're  young,  charming,  as  full  of  natural  life 
as  a  young  flower  in  the  morning.  But  I  ...  I'm 
not  romantic.  To-night,  yes!  But  next  Friday,  in 
Shanghai,  no!" 

Betty  turned  away  to  hide  a  smile. 

"You  think  I'm  brutal?    Well— I  am." 

"No,  you're  not  brutal." 

"Yes,  I  am.  .  .  .  But  my  God !  You  in  T'ainan- 
fu!  Child,  it's  wrong!" 

"It  is  simply  a  thing  I  can't  help,"  said  she. 

They  fell  silent.  The  pulse  of  the  great  dim  ship 
was  soothing.  One  bell  sounded.  Two  bells.  Three. 


A  man  of  Jonathan  Brachey's  nature  couldn't  know 
the  power  his  nervous  bold  thoughts  and  words  were 
bound  to  exert  in  the  mind  of  a  girl  like  Betty.  In  her 
heart  already  she  was  mothering  him.  Every  word 
he  spoke  now,  even  the  strong  words  that  startled 
her,  she  enveloped  in  warm  sentiment. 

To  Brachey's  crabbed,  self-centered  nature  she  was 
like  a  lush  oasis  in  the  arid  desert  of  his  heart.  He 
could  no  more  turn  his  back  on  it  than  could  any  tired, 
dusty  wanderer.  He  knew  this.  Or,  better,  she  was 
like  a  mirage.  And  mirages  have  driven  men  out  of 
their  wits. 

So  romance  seized  them.  They  walked  miles  the 
next  day,  round  and  round  the  deck.  Mrs.  Hasmer 
was  powerless,  and  perturbed.  Her  husband  counseled 


ROMANCE  41 

watchful  patience.  Before  night  all  the  passengers 
knew  that  the  two  were  restless  apart.  They  found 
corners  on  the  boat  deck,  far  from  all  eyes. 

That  night  Mrs.  Hasmer  came  to  Betty's  door;  sat- 
isfied herself  that  the  girl  was  actually  undressing  and 
going  to  bed.  Not  one  personal  word  passed. 

And  then,  half  an  hour  later,  Betty,  dressed  again, 
tiptoed  out.  Her  heart  was  high,  touched  with  divine 
recklessness.  This,  she  supposed,  was  wrong ;  but  right 
or  wrong,  it  was  carrying  her  out  of  her  girlish  self. 
She  couldn't  stop. 

Brachey  was  fighting  harder;  but  to  little  purpose. 
They  had  these  two  days  now.  That  was  all.  At 
Shanghai,  and  after,  it  would  be,  as  he  had  so  vigor- 
ously said,  different.  Just  these  two  days!  He  saw, 
when  she  joined  him  on  the  deck,  that  she  was  riding 
at  the  two  days  as  if  they  were  to  be  her  last  on  earth. 
Intensely,  soberly  happy,  she  was  passing  through  av 
golden  haze  of  dreams,  leaving  the  future  to  be  what 
it  might. 

They  sat,  hand  in  hand,  in  the  bow.  She  sang,  in  a 
light  pretty  voice,  songs  of  youth  in  a  young  land — 
college  ditties,  popular  negro  melodies,  amusing  little 
street  songs. 

Very,  very  late,  on  the  last  evening,  after  a  long 
silence — they  had  mounted  to  the  boat  deck — he  caught 
her  roughly  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

She  lay  limply  against  him.  For  a  moment,  a  bit- 
ter moment — for  now,  in  an  instant,  he  knew  that  she 


42  HILLS  OF  HAN 

had  never  thought  as  far  as  this — he  feared  she  had 
fainted.  Then  he  felt  her  tears  on  his  cheek. 

He  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  as  roughly. 

She  swayed  away  from  him  leaning  against  a  boat. 

He  said,  choking: 

"Can  you  get  down  the  steps  all  right  ?" 

She  bowed  her  head.  He  made  no  effort  to  help  her 
down  the  steps.  They  walked  along  the  deck  toward 
the  main  companionway.  Suddenly,  with  an  inarticu- 
late sound,  he  turned,  plunged  in  at  the  smoking-room 
door,  and  was  gone. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  ship  dropped  anchor  in 
the  muddy  Woosung.  The  breakfast  hour  came 
around,  then  quarantine  inspection;  but  the  silent  pale 
Betty,  her  moody  eyes  searching  restlessly,  caught  no 
glimpse  of  him.  He  must  have  taken  a  later  launch 
than  the  one  that  carried  Betty  and  the  Hasmers  up 
to  the  Bund  at  Shanghai.  And  during  their  two  days 
in  the  bizarre,  polyglot  city,  with  its  European  fagade 
behind  which  swarms  all  China,  it  became  clear  that 
he  wasn't  stopping  at  the  Astor  House. 

The  only  letter  was  from  her  father  at  T'ainan-fu. 

She  watched  every  mail ;  and  inquired  secretly  at  the 
office  of  the  river  steamers  an  hour  before  starting  on 
the  long  voyage  up  the  Yangtse ;  but  there  was  nothing. 

Then  she  recalled  that  he  had  never  asked  for  her 
address,  or  for  her  father's  full  name.  They  had 
spoken  of  T'ainan-fu.  He  might  or  might  not  remem- 
ber it. 

And  that  was  all. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SHEPHERD 


AT  the  point  where  the  ancient  highway,  linking 
«/~V  Northern  China  with  Thibet,  the  Kukunor  region 
and  Mongolia,  emerges  from  the  treeless,  red-brown 
tumbling  hills  of  Hansi  Province  there  stands  across 
the  road — or  stood,  before  the  revolution  of  1911 — a 
scenic  arch  of  masonry  crowned  with  a  curving  elab- 
orately ornamented  roof  of  tiles.  Some  forgotten 
philanthropist  erected  it,  doubtless  for  a  memorial  to 
forgotten  dead.  Through  this  arch  the  west-bound 
traveler  caught  his  first  view  of  the  wide  yellow  valley 
of  the  Han,  with  its  yellow  river,  its  square-walled, 
gray-green  capital  city,  and,  far  beyond,  of  the  sharp 
purple  mountains  that  might  have  been  cut  out  of  card- 
board. 

The  gray  of  old  T'ainan  lay  in  the  massive  battle- 
mented  walls  and  in  the  more  than  six  square  miles 
of  closely  packed  tile  roofs ;  the  green  in  its  thousands 
of  trees.  For  here,  as  in  Peking  and  Sian-fu  they  had 
preserved  the  trees;  not,  of  course,  in  the  innumerable 
tortuous  streets,  where  petty  merchants,  money-chang- 
ers, porters,  coolies,  beggars,  soldiers  and  other  riff- 
raff passed  freely  through  mud  or  dust,  but  within  the 
thousands  of  hidden  private  courtyards,  in  the  yamens 
of  governor,  treasurer,  and  provincial  judge,  in  tem- 

43 


44  HILLS  OF  HAN 

pie  grounds  outside  the  walls,  and  in  the  compound 
of  the  American  Mission.  At  this  latter  spot,  by  the 
way,  could  be  seen,  with  the  aid  of  field-glasses,  the 
only  two-story  residence  in  T'ainan ;  quite  a  European 
house,  built  after  the  French  manner  of  red  brick 
trimmed  with  white  stone,  and  rising  distinctly  above 
the  typically  gray  roofs  that  clustered  about  its  lower 
windows. 

There  were  bold  gate  towers  on  the  city  wall ;  eight 
of  them,  great  timbered  structures  with  pagoda  roofs 
rising  perhaps  fifteen  yards  above  the  wall  and  thirty 
above  the  lowly  roadway.  The  timber-work  under  the 
shadowing  eaves  had  sometime  been  painted  in  reds, 
blues  and  greens;  and  the  once  vivid  colors,  though 
dulled  now  by  weather  and  years,  were  still  richly 
visible  to  the  near-observer. 

Many  smaller  settlements,  little  gray  clusters  of 
houses,  lay  about  the  plain  on  radiating  highways ;  for 
T'ainan  boasted  its  suburbs.  The  hill  slopes  were 
dotted  with  the  homes  and  walled  gardens  of  bankers, 
merchants  and  other  gentry.  On  a  plateau  just  north 
of  the  Great  Highway  stood,  side  by  side,  two  thirteen- 
roof  pagodas,  the  pride  of  all  central  Hansi. 

About  the  city,  on  any  day  of  the  seven,  twisting 
through  the  hundreds  of  little  streets  and  in  and  out 
at  the  eight  gates,  moved  tens  of  thousands  of  tire- 
lessly busy  folk,  all  clad  in  the  faded  blue  cotton  that 
spells  China  to  the  eye,  and  among  these  a  slow- 
moving,  never-ceasing  tangle  of  wheeled  and  four- 
footed  local  traffic. 


THE  SHEPHERD  45 

And  along  the  Great  Highway — down  the  hill 
slopes,  through  suburbs  and  city,  over  the  river  and  on 
toward  the  teeming  West ;  over  the  river,  through  city 
and  suburbs  and  up  the  hills,  toward  the  teeming  East 
— flowed  all  day  long  the  larger  commerce  that  linked 
province  with  province  and,  ultimately,  yellow  man 
with  white,  at  the  treaty  ports,  hundreds  of  miles 
away.  There  were  strings  of  laden  camels  with  evil- 
looking  Mongol  drivers;  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
camels,  disdainfully  going  and  coming.  There  were 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  asses,  patient  little  humor- 
ists, bearing  panniers  of  coal  lumps  and  iron  ore  from 
the  crudely  operated  mines  in  the  hills.  There  were 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  mule-drawn  carts,  spring- 
less,  many  with  arched  roofs  of  matting. 

Along  the  roadside,  sheltered  by  little  sagging  can- 
opies of  grimy  matting,  or  squatting  in  the  dirt,  were 
vendors  of  flat  cakes  and  vinegary  sumshoo  and  bits 
of  this  and  that  to  wear.  Naked  children  swarmed 
like  flies  in  the  sun. 

The  day-by-day  life  of  the  oldest  and  least  self- 
conscious  civilization  in  the  world  was  moving  quietly, 
resistlessly  along,  as  it  had  moved  for  six  thousand 
years. 

2 

Reverend  Henry  B.  Withery,  on  a  morning  in  late 
March,  came,  by  springless  cart,  out  of  Kansu  into 
T'ainan.  A  drab  little  man,  with  patient  fervor  in 
his  eyes  and  a  limp  (this  latter  the  work  of  Boxers  in 


46  HILLS  OF  HAN 

1900).  He  was  bound,  on  leave,  for  Shanghai,  San 
Francisco  and  home;  but  a  night  at  T'ainan  with 
Griggsby  Doane  meant,  even  in  the  light  of  hourly 
nearing  America,  much.  For  they  had  shared  rooms 
at  the  seminary.  They  had  entered  the  yielding  yet  re- 
sisting East  side  by  side.  Meeting  but  once  or  twice  a 
year,  even  less  often,  they  had  felt  each  other  deeply 
across  the  purple  mountains. 

They  sat  through  tiffin  with  the  intent  preoccupied 
workers  in  the  dining-room  of  the  brick  house;  and 
Mr.  Withery's  gentle  eyes  took  in  rather  shrewdly 
the  curious  household.  It  interested  him.  There 
were  elements  that  puzzled  him ;  a  suggestion  of  stale- 
ness  in  this  face,  of  nervous  overstrain  in  that;  a 
tension. 

The  several  native  workers  smiled  and  talked  less, 
he  thought,  than  on  his  former  visits. 

Little  Mr.  Boatwright — slender,  dustily  blond,  al- 
ways hitherto  burning  with  the  fire  of  consecration — 
was  continually  fumbling  with  a  spoon,  or  slowly 
twisting  his  tumbler,  the  while  moodily  studying  the 
table-cloth.  And  his  larger  wife  seemed  heavier  in 
mind  as  in  body. 

Mr.  Withery  found  the  atmosphere  even  a  little 
oppressive.  He  looked  up  about  the  comfortable,  high- 
ceiled  room.  Mounted  and  placed  on  the  walls  were 
a  number  of  interesting  specimens  of  wild  fowl.  El- 
mer Boatwright,  though  no  devotee  of  slaughter  or 
even  of  sport,  had  shot  and  mounted  these  himself. 

Withery  asked  him  now  if  he  had  found  any  inter- 


THE  SHEPHERD  47 

esting  birds  lately.  The  reply  was  little  more  than 
monosyllabic;  it  was  almost  the  reply  of  a  middle-aged 
man  who  has  lost  and  forgotten  the  enthusiasm  of 
youth. 

There  was  talk,  of  course ;  the  casual  surface  chatter 
of  folk  who  are  deeply  united  in  work.  A  new  school- 
room was  under  construction.  Jen  Ling  Pu,  a  native 
preacher,  was  doing  well  at  So  T'ung.  The  new  tennis 
court  wasn't,  after  all,  long  enough. 

During  all  this,  Withery  pondered.  Griggsby  was 
driving  too  hard,  of  course.  The  strongly  ascetic  na- 
ture of  the  man  seemed  to  be  telling  on  him;  or  per- 
haps it  was  running  out,  the  fire  of  it,  leaving  only  the 
force  of  will.  That  happened,  of  course,  now  and 
then,  in  the  case  of  men  gifted  with  great  natural  vi- 
tality. 

Then  too,  come  to  reflect  on  it,  the  fight  had  been 
hard,  here  in  Hansi.  Since  1900.  Harder,  perhaps, 
than  anywhere  else  except  Shantung  and  Chihli. 
Harder  even  than  in  those  more  easterly  provinces, 
for  they  were  nearer  things.  There  were  human  con- 
tacts, freshening  influences.  .  .  .  The  Boxers  had 
dealt  heavily  with  the  whites  in  Hansi.  More  than 
a  hundred  had  been  slain  by  fire  or  sword.  Young 
women — girls  like  these  two  or  three  about  the  dinner 
table — had  been  tortured.  Griggsby  and  his  wife  and 
the  little  girl  had  missed  destruction  only  through  the 
accident  of  a  journey,  in  the  spring,  to  Shanghai.  And 
he  had  returned,  dangerously  early,  to  a  smoldering 
ruin  and  plunged  with  all  the  vigor  in  his  unusual 


48  HILLS  OF  HAN 

body  and  mind  at  the  task  of  reconstruction.  The 
work  in  the  province  was  shorthanded,  of  course,  even 
yet.  It  would  be  so.  But  Griggsby  was  building  it 
up.  He  even  had  the  little  so-called  college,  down 
the  river  at  Hung  Chan,  going  again,  after  a  fashion. 
Money  was  needed,  of  course.  And  teachers.  And 
equipment.  All  that  had  been  discussed  during  tiffin. 
It  was  a  rather  heroic  record.  And  it  had  not  passed 
unobserved.  At  the  Missionary  Conference,  at  Shang- 
hai, in  1906,  Griggsby's  report — carefully  phrased, 
understated  throughout,  almost  colorless — had  drawn 
out  unusual  applause. 

Mrs.  Doane's  death  occurred  during  the  first  year 
of  that  painful  reconstruction.  Griggsby's  course, 
after  that,  from  the  day  of  the  funeral,  in  fact,  as 
you  looked  back  over  it,  recalling  this  and  that  ap- 
parently trivial  incident,  was  characteristic.  The 
daughter  was  sent  back  to  the  States,  for  schooling. 
Griggsby  furnished  for  himself,  up  in  what  was  little 
more,  really,  than  the  attic  of  the  new  mission  resi- 
dence, a  bare,  severe  little  suite  of  bedroom  and  study. 
The  newly  married  Boatwrights  he  installed,  as  some- 
thing near  master  and  mistress,  on  the  second  floor. 
The  other  white  workers  and  teachers  filled  all  but 
the  two  guest  rooms,  and,  at  times,  even  these.  And 
then,  his  little  institution  organized  on  a  wholly  new 
footing,  he  had  loaded  himself  sternly  with  work. 

Dinner  was  over.  One  by  one  the  younger  people 
left  the  room.  And  within  a  few  moments  the  after- 
noon routine  of  the  mission  compound  was  under  way. 


THE  SHEPHERD  49 

Through  the  open  window  came  a  beam  of  warm 
spring  sunshine.  Outside,  across  the  wide  courtyard 
Withery  noted  the,  to  him,  familiar  picture  of  two  or 
three  blue-clad  Chinese  men  lounging  on  the  steps  of 
the  gate  house;  students  crossing,  books  in  hand; 
young  girls  round  and  fresh  of  face,  their  slanting 
eyes  demurely  downcast,  assembling  before  one  of  the 
buildings;  two  carpenters  working  deliberately  on  a 
scaffold.  A  so  ft- footed  servant  cleared  the  table. 
Now  that  the  two  friends  were  left  free  to  chat  of  per- 
sonal matters,  the  talk  wandered  into  unexpectedly  im- 
personal regions.  Withery  found  himself  baffled,  and 
something  puzzled.  During  each  of  their  recent  visits 
Griggsby's  manner  had  affected  him  in  this  same  way, 
but  less  definitely.  The  aloofness — he  had  once  or 
twice  even  thought  of  it  as  an  evasiveness — had  been 
only  a  tendency.  The  old  friendship  had  soon  warmed 
through  it  and  brought  ease  of  spirit  and  tongue.  But 
the  tendency  had  grown.  The  present  Griggsby  was 
clearly  going  to  prove  harder  to  get  at.  That  re- 
moteness of  manner  had  grown  on  him  as  a  habit. 
The  real  man,  whatever  he  was  coming  to  be,  was  hid- 
den now;  the  man  whose  very  soul  had  once  been 
written  clear  in  the  steady  blue  eyes. 

And  what  a  man  he  was !  Mr.  Withery  indulged  in 
a  moment  of  sentiment  as  he  quietly,  shrewdly  studied 
him,  across  the  table. 

In  physical  size,  as  in  mental  attainments  and  emo- 
tional force,  James  Griggsby  Doane  had  been,  from 
the  beginning,  a  marked  man.  He  was  forty-five  now ; 


50  HILLS  OF  HAN 

or  within  a  year  of  it.  The  thick  brown  hair  of  their 
student  days  was  thinner -now  at  the  sides  and  nearly 
gone  on  top.  But  the  big  head  was  set  on  the  solid 
shoulders  with  all  the  old  distinction.  A  notable  fact 
about  Griggsby  Doane  was  that  after  winning  intercol- 
legiate standing  as  a  college  football  player,  he  had 
never  allowed  his  body  to  settle  back  with  the  years. 
He  weighed  now,  surely,  within  a  pound  or  two  or 
three  of  his  playing  weight  twenty-four  years  earlier. 
He  had  always  been  what  the  British  term  a  clean 
feeder,  eating  sparingly  of  simple  food.  Hardly  a 
day  of  his  life  but  had  at  least  its  hour  or  two  of  vio- 
lent exercise.  He  would  rise  at  five  in  the  morning  and 
run  a  few  miles  before  breakfast.  He  played  tennis 
and  handball.  He  would  gladly  have  boxed  and 
wrestled,  but  a  giant  with  nearly  six  and  a  half  feet 
of  trained,  conditioned  muscle  at  his  disposal  finds 
few  to  meet  him,  toe  to  toe.  His  passion  for  walk- 
ing had  really,  during  the  earlier  years,  raised  minor 
difficulties  about  T'ainan.  The  Chinese  were  intelli- 
gent and,  of  course,  courteous;  but  it  was  more  than 
they  could  be  asked  to  understand  at  first. 

It  had  worked  out,  gradually.  They  knew  him  now ; 
knew  he  was  fearless,  industrious,  patient,  kind.  Dur- 
ing the  later  years,  after  the  Boxer  trouble,  his  im- 
mense figure,  striding  like  him  of  the  fabled  seven- 
league-boots,  had  become  a  familiar,  friendly  figure  in 
central  Hansi.  Not  infrequently  he  would  tramp, 
pack  on  shoulders,  from  one  to  another  of  the  out- 
lying mission  stations;  and  thought  nothing  of  cov- 


THE  SHEPHERD  51 

ering  a  hundred  and  thirty  or  forty  /{  where  your  cart 
or  litter  mules  or  your  Manchu  pony  would  stop  at 
ninety  and  call  it  a  day. 

Withery  was  bringing  the  talk  around  to  the  per- 
sonal when  Doane  looked  at  his  watch. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  Henry,"  he  said.  "I've  a  couple 
of  classes.  But  I'll  knock  off  about  four-thirty.  Make 
yourself  comfortable.  Prowl  about.  Use  my  study, 
if  you  like.  .  .  .  Or  wait.  We  were  speaking  of 
the  Ho  Shan  Company.  They've  had  two  or  three 
mass  meetings  here  during  the  winter,  and  got  up 
some  statements." 

"Do  they  suggest  violence?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Doane  waved  the  thought  carelessly 
aside.  "But  Pao  will  keep  them  in  hand,  I  think. 
He  doesn't  want  real  trouble.  But  he  wouldn't  mind 
scaring  the  company  into  selling  out.  The  gossip  is 
that  he  is  rather  heavily  interested  himself  in  some  of 
the  native  mines." 

"Is  Pao  your  governor?" 

"No,  the  governor  died  last  fall,  and  no  successor 
has  been  sent  out.  Kang,  the  treasurer,  is  nearly 
seventy  and  smokes  sixty  to  a  hundred  pipes  of  opium 
a  day.  Pao  Ting  Chuan  is  provincial  judge,  but  is 
ruling  the  province  now.  He's  an  able  fellow."  .  .  . 
Doane  drew  a  thick  lot  of  papers  from  an  inner  pocket, 
and  selected  one.  "Read  this.  It's  one  of  their  state- 
ments. Pao  had  the  translation  made  in  his  yamen. 
I  haven't  the  original,  but  the  translation  is  fairly  ac- 
curate I  believe." 


52  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Withery  took  the  paper;  ignored  it,  and  studied  his 
friend,  who  had  moved  to  the  door.  Doane  seemed  to 
have  lost  his  old  smile — reflective,  shrewd,  a  little  quiz- 
zical. The  furrow  between  his  eyes  had  deepened  into 
something  near  a  permanent  frown.  There  were  fine 
lines  about  and  under  the  eyes  that  might  have  indi- 
cated a  deep  weariness  of  the  spirit.  Yet  the  skin  was 
clear,  the  color  good.  .  .  .  Griggsby  was  fighting 
something  out ;  alone ;  through  the  years. 

Feeling  this,  Henry  Withery  broke  out,  in  some- 
thing their  old  frank  way : 

"Do  knock  off,  Grigg.  Let's  have  one  of  the  old 
talks.  I  think — I  think  perhaps  you  need  me  a  little." 

Doane  hesitated.    It  was  not  like  him  to  do  that. 

"Yes,"  he  said  gravely,  but  with  his  guard  up,  that 
curious  guard,  "it  would  be  fine  to  have  one  of  the  old 
talks  if  we  can  get  at  it." 

He  turned  to  go ;  then  paused. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  I'm  expecting  Pourmont.  A  little 
later  in  the  day.  He's  resident  engineer  for  the  Ho 
Shan  Company,  over  at  Ping  Yang.  Pierre  Francois 
George  Marie  Pourmont.  An  amusing  person.  He 
feels  a  good  deal  of  concern  over  these  meetings.  For 
that  matter,  he  was  mobbed  here  in  February.  He 
didn't  like  that." 

Withery  found  himself  compressing  his  lips,  and 
tried  to  correct  that  impulse  with  a  rather  artificial 
smile.  It  wasn't  like  Griggsby  to  speak  in  that  light 
way.  Like  a  society  man  almost.  It  suggested  a  hard- 
ening of  the  spirit ;  or  a  crust  over  deep  sensitiveness. 


THE  SHEPHERD  53 

Men,  he  reflected,  who  have  to  fight  themselves  dur- 
ing long  periods  of  time  are  often  hardened  by  the  ex- 
perience, even  though  they  eventually  win. 

He  wondered,  moving  to  the  window,  and  thought- 
fully watching  the  huge  man  striding  across  the  court- 
yard, if  Griggsby  Doane  would  be  winning. 


Up  in  the  little  study  under  the  roof  Mr.  Withery 
sank  into  a  Morris  chair  and  settled  back  to  read  the 
views  of  the  "Gentry  and  People  of  Hansi"  on  foreign 
mining  syndicates.  The  documents  had  been  typed  on 
an  old  machine  with  an  occasional  broken  letter;  and 
were  phrased  in  the  quaint  English  that  had  long  been 
familiar  to  him. 

First  came  a  statement  of  the  "five  items"  of  differ- 
ence between  these  "Gentry  and  People"  and  the  Ho 
Shan  Company — all  of  a  technical  or  business  nature. 
Only  in  the  last  "item"  did  the  emotional  reasoning 
common  to  Chinese  public  documents  make  its  appear- 
ance. .  i  .  "Five.  In  Honan  the  company 
boldly  introduced  dynamite,  which  is  prohibited.  The 
dynamite  exploded  and  this  gave  rise  to  diplomatic 
trouble,  a  like  thing  might  happen  in  Hansi  with  the 
same  evil  consequences."  Then  followed  this  in- 
evitable general  statement : 

"At  present  in  China,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest, 
all  are  in  difficulty — the  annual  for  the  indemnities 
amounts  to  Taels  30,000,000,  and  in  every  province 


54  HILLS  OF  HAN 

the  reforms  involve  great  additional  expenditure, 
while  the  authorities  only  know  how  to  control  the 
expenditure,  but  not  how  to  reach  fresh  sources  of  in- 
come. Those  in  power  can  find  no  fresh  funds  and 
the  people  are  extremely  poor  and  all  they  have  to 
trust  to  are  a  few  feet  of  land  which  have  not  been 
excavated  by  the  foreigners.  Westerners  say  that  the 
coal  of  Hansi  is  sufficient  to  supply  the  needs  of  the 
world  for  two  thousand  years ;  in  other  countries  there 
is  coal  without  iron,  or  iron  without  coal,  but  in  Hansi 
there  is  abundance  of  both  coal  and  iron  and  it  forms 
one  of  the  best  manufacturing  countries  in  the  world. 
At  present  if  there  is  no  protection  for  China  then  that 
finishes  it,  but  if  China  is  to  be  protected  how  can 
Hansi  be  excluded  from  protection?  Therefore  all 
China  and  all  Hansi  must  withstand  the  claims  of  the 
Ho  Shan  Company. 

"The  company's  agent  general  says  that  the  agree- 
ment was  drawn  up  with  the  Chinese  Government,  but 
at  that  time  the  people  were  unenlightened  and  traitors 
were  suffered  to  effect  stolen  sales  of  Government 
lands,  using  oppression  and  disregarding  the  lives  of 
the  people.  Now  all  the  Gentry  and  People  know  how 
things  are,  and  of  what  importance  the  consequences 
are  for  the  lives  of  themselves  and  their  families,  and 
so  with  one  heart  they  all  withstand  the  company  in 
whatever  schemes  it  may  have,  for  they  are  not  willing 
to  drop  their  hands  and  give  themselves  up  to  death, 
and  if  the  officials  will  not  protect  the  mines  of  Hansi 
then  we  will  protect  our  mines  ourselves. 

"We  suggest  a  plan  for  the  company,  that  it  should 
state  the  sum  used  to  bribe  Hu  Pin  Chih,  and  to  win 
over  Chia  Ching  Jen  and  Liu  O  and  Sheng  Hsuan  Hui 
and  the  Tsung  Li  Yamen,  and  the  Wai  Wu  Pu  and  the 
Yu  Chuan  Pu,  at  the  present  time,  and  the  bribes  to 


THE  SHEPHERD  55 

other  cruel  traitors,  and  a  detailed  account  of  their 
expenditure  in  opening  their  mines  since  their  arrival 
in  China,  and  Hansi  will  repay  the  amount.  If  the 
company  still  pushes  the  claim  for  damages,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  delay  in  issuing  the  permit  then  the 
Hansi  people  will  never  submit  to  it. 

"In  conclusion  the  people  of  Hansi  must  hold  to 
their  mines  till  death,  and  if  the  Government  and  of- 
ficials still  unrighteously  flatter  the  foreigners  in  their 
oppression  and  flog  the  people  robbing  them  of  their 
flesh  and  blood  to  give  those  to  the  foreigners  then 
some  one  must  throw  away  his  life  by  bomb  throwing 
and  so  repay  the  company,  but  we  trust  the  company 
will  carefully  consider  and  weigh  the  matter  and  not 
push  Hansi  to  this  extremity." 

Mr.  Withery  laid  the  documents  on  Doane's  desk, 
and  gave  up  an  hour  to  jotting  down  notes  for  his  own 
annual  report.  Then  he  took  a  long  walk,  in  through 
the  wall  and  about  the  inner  city.  He  was  back  by  four- 
thirty,  but  found  no  sign  of  his  friend. 

At  five  a  stout  Frenchman  arrived,  a  man  of  fifty 
or  more,  with  a  long,  square-trimmed  beard  of  which 
he  was  plainly  fond.  Doane  returned  then  to  the 
house. 

4 

The  three  men  had  tea  in  the  study.  M.  Pourmont, 
with  an  apology,  smoked  cigarettes.  Withery  observed, 
when  the  genial  Frenchman  turned  his  head,  that  the 
lobe  of  his  left  ear  was  missing. 

M.  Pourmont  regarded  the  local  situation  seriously. 

"Zay  spik  of  you,"  he  explained  to  Griggsby  Doane. 


56  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Zay  say  zat  you  have  ze  petit  papier,  ze  little  paper, 
all  yellow,  cut  like  ze  little  man  an'  woman.  An'  it 
is  also  zat  zay  say  zat  ze  little  girl,  ze  student,  all  ze 
little  jeunes  filles,  is  ze  lowair  vife  of  you,  Monsieur. 
It  is  not  good,  zat.  At  Paree  ve  vould  say  zat  it  is 
ze  compliment,  but  here  it  is  not  good.  It  is  zat  zay 
have  not  bifore  spik  like  zat  of  Monsieur  Doane." 

Doane  merely  considered  this  without  replying. 

"That  statement  of  the  Gentry  and  People  looks 
rather  serious  to  me,"  Mr.  Withery  remarked. 

"It  has  its  serious  side,"  said  Doane  quietly.  "But 
you  see,  of  course,  from  the  frankness  and  publicity 
of  it,  that  the  officials  are  back  of  it.  These  Gentry 
and  People  would  never  go  so  far  unsupported.  It 
wouldn't  surprise  me  to  learn  that  the  documents 
originated  within  the  yamen  of  his  ExceDency  Pao 
Ting  Chuan." 

"Very  good,"  said  Withery.  "But  if  he  lets  it  drift 
much  further  the  danger  will  be  real.  Suppose  some 
young  hothead  were  to  take  that  last  threat  seriously 
and  give  up  his  life  in  throwing  a  bomb — what  then?" 

"It  would  be  serious  then,  of  course,"  said  Doane. 
"But  I  hardly  think  any  one  here  would  go  so  far  un- 
supported." 

"Yes !"  cried  M.  Pourmont,  in  some  excitement,  "an' 
at  who  is  it  zat  zay  t'row  ze  bomb?  It  is  at  me,  n'est 
ce  pas?  At  me!  You  t'.ink  I  forget  v'en  ze  mob  it 
t'row  ze  pierre  at  me?  Mais  non!  Zay  tear  ze  cart 
of  me.  Zay  beat  ze  head  of  me.  Zay  destroy  ze  ear 
of  me.  Ah,  c'  etait  terrible,  qal" 


THE  SHEPHERD  57 

"They  attacked  Monsieur  Pourmont  while  he  was 
riding  to  the  yamen  for  an  audience  with  Pao,"  Doane 
explained.  "But  Pao  heard  of  it  and  promptly  sent 
soldiers.  I  took  it  up  with  him  the  next  day.  He 
acted  most  correctly.  The  ringleaders  of  the  mob 
were  whipped  and  imprisoned." 

"But  you  mus'  also  say  to  Monsieur  Vit'eree  zat  ze 
committee  of  my  compagnie  he  come  to  Peking — 
quinze  mille  kilometres  he  come! — an'  now  Son  Ex- 
cellence he  say  zay  mus'  not  come  here,  into  ze  prov- 
ince. It  is  so  difficult,  ga!  An'  ze  committee  he  is  ver' 
angry.  He  swear  at  Peking.  He  cool  ze — vat  you 
say — heels.  An'  ze  work  he  all  stop.  No  good !  Noz- 
zing  at  all !" 

"That  is  all  so,  Henry."  Thus  Doane,  turning  to 
his  friend.  "I  don't  mean  to  minimize  the  actual  dif- 
ficulties. But  I  do  not  believe  we  are  in  any  such  dan- 
ger as  in  1900.  Even  then  the  officials  did  it,  of 
course.  If  they  hadn't  believed  that  the  incantations 
of  the  Boxers  made  them  immune  to  our  bullets,  and 
if  they  hadn't  convinced  the  Empress  Dowager  of  it, 
we  should  never  have  had  the  siege  of  the  legations. 
But  I  am  to  have  an  audience  with  His  Excellency  to- 
morrow, at  one,  and  will  go  over  this  ground  carefully. 
I  have  no  wish,  myself,  to  underestimate  the  trouble. 
My  daughter  arrives  next  week." 

"Oh !"  said  Withery.  "Oh  .  .  .  your  daughter ! 
From  the  States,  Grigg?" 

"Yes,  I  am  to  meet  her  at  Hankow.  The  Hasmers 
brought  her  across." 


58  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"That's  too  bad,  in  a  way." 

"Of  course.    But  there  was  no  choice." 

"But  zat  is  not  all  zat  is !"  M.  Pourmont  was  pacing 
the  floor  now.  "A  boy  of  me,  of  ze  cuisine,  he  go 
home  las'  week  to  So  T'ung  an'  he  say  zat  a — vat  you 
call  ? — a  circle  .  .  ." 

"A  society?" 

"Mais  oui!  A  society,  she  meet  in  ze  night  an'  fait 
V  exercise — " 

"They  are  drilling?" 

"Oui!   Ze  drill.    It  is  ze  society  of  Ze  Great  Eye." 

"I  never  heard  of  that,"  mused  Griggsby  aloud.  "I 
don't  really  see  what  they  can  do.  But  I'll  take  it  up 
to-morrow  with  Pao.  I  would  ask  you,  however,  to 
remember  that  if  the  people  don't  know  the  cost  of  in- 
demnities, there  can  be  no  doubt  about  Pao.  He 
knows.  And  it  is  hard  for  me  to  imagine  the  province 
drifting  out  of  his  control  for  a  single  day.  One  event 
I  am  planning  to  watch  closely  is  the  fair  here  after 
the  middle  of  April.  Some  of  these  agitators  of  the 
Gentry  and  People  are  sure  to  be  on  hand.  We  shall 
learn  a  great  deal  then." 

"You'll  be  back  then,  Grigg?" 

"Oh,  yes.  By  the  tenth.  I  shan't  delay  at  all  at 
Hankow." 

It  seemed  to  Henry  Withery  that  his  friend  and 
host  maneuvered  to  get  him  to  retire  first.  Then  he 
attributed  the  suspicion  to  his  own  disturbed  thoughts. 
.  .  .  Still,  Griggsby  hadn't  returned  to  the  house 


THE  SHEPHERD  59 

until  after  M.  Pourmont's  arrival.  It  was  now  nearly 
midnight,  and  there  had  been  never  a  personal  word. 

But  at  last,  M.  Pourmont  out  of  the  way  for 
the  night,  lamp  in  hand,  Griggsby  led  the  way  to  the 
remaining  guest  room. 

Withery,  following,  looked  up  at  the  tall  grave 
man,  who  had  to  stoop  a  little  at  the  doors.  Would 
Griggsby  put  down  the  lamp,  speak  a  courteous  good 
night,  and  go  off  to  his  own  attic  quarters;  or  would 
he  linger?  It  was  to  be  a  test,  this  coming  moment, 
of  their  friendship.  .  .  .  Withery's  heart  filled.  In 
his  way,  through  the  years,  out  there  in  remote  Kansu, 
he  had  always  looked  up  to  Grigg  and  had  leaned  on 
him,  on  memories  of  him  as  he  had  been.  He  had  the 
memories  now — curiously  poignant  memories,  tinged 
with  the  melancholy  of  lost  youth.  But  had  he  still 
the  friend? 

Doane  set  down  the  lamp,  and  looked  about,  all 
grave  courtesy,  to  see  if  his  friend's  bag  was  at  hand, 
and  if  the  wash-stand  and  towel-rack  had  been  made 
ready. 

Withery  stood  on  the  sill,  struggling  to  control  his 
emotions.  Longfellow's  lines  came  to  mind : 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

They  were  middle-aged  now,  they  two.  It  was  ex- 
traordinarily hard  to  believe.  They  had  felt  so  much, 


60  HILLS  OF  HAN 

and  shared  so  much.  They  had  plunged  at  missionary 
work  with  such  ardor.  Grigg  especially.  He  had 
thrown  aside  more  than  one  early  opportunity  for  a 
start  in  business.  He  had  sacrificed  useful  worldly 
acquaintances.  His  heart  had  burned  to  save  souls,  to 
carry  the  flame  of  divine  revelation  into  what  had  then 
seemed  a  benighted,  materialistic  land. 

Grigg  would  have  succeeded  in  business  or  in  the 
service  of  his  government.  He  had  a  marked  admin- 
istrative gift.  And  power.  .  .  .  Distinctly  power. 

Withery  stepped  within  the  room,  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  and  looked  straight  up  into  that  mask  of 
a  face ;  in  his  own  deep  emotion  he  thought  of  it  as  a 
tragic  mask. 

"Grigg,"  he  said  very  simply,  "what's  the  matter?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Doane  came  toward  the 
door. 

"The  matter?"  he  queried,  with  an  effort  to  smile. 

"Can't  we  talk,  Grigg?  ...  I  know  you  are  in 
deep  trouble." 

"Well" — Doane  rested  a  massive  hand  on  a  bed- 
post— "I  won't  say  that  it  isn't  an  anxious  time,  Henry. 
I'm  pinning  my  faith  to  Pao  Ting  Chuan.  But  .  .  ". 
And,  of  course,  if  I  could  have  foreseen  all  the  little 
developments,  I  wouldn't  have  sent  for  Betty.  Though 
it's  not  easy  to  see  what  else  I  could  have  done.  Frank 
and  Ethel  couldn't  keep  her  longer.  And  the  expense 
of  any  other  arrangement  .  .  .  She's  nineteen, 
Henry.  A  young  woman.  Curious — a  young  woman 
whom  I've  never  even  seen  as  such,  and  my  daughter!" 


THE  SHEPHERD  61 

"It  isn't  that,  Grigg." 

At  the  moment  Withery  could  say  no  more.  He 
sank  into  a  chair  by  the  door,  depressed  in  spirit. 

Doane  walked  to  the  window;  looked  out  at  the 
stars ;  drummed  a  moment  on  the  glass. 

"It's  been  uphill  work,  Henry  .  .  .  since  nineteen 
hundred." 

Withery  cleared  his  throat.  "It  isn't  that,"  he  re- 
peated unsteadily. 

Doane  stood  there  a  moment  longer;  then  turned 
and  gazed  gloomily  at  his  friend. 

The  silence  grew  painful. 

Finally,  Doane  sighed,  spread  his  hands  in  the  man- 
ner of  one  who  surrenders  to  fate,  and  came  slowly 
over  to  the  bed;  stretching  out  his  long  frame  there, 
against  the  pillows. 

"So  it's  as  plain  as  that,  Henry." 

"It  is— to  me." 

"I  wonder  if  I  can  talk." 

"The  question  is,  Grigg — can  I  help  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Henry.    I  doubt  if  any  one  can." 

The  force  of  this  sank  slowly  into  Withery's  mind. 

"No  one?"  he  asked  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"I'm  afraid  not.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  the  others, 
my  people  here,  see  it?" 

"The  tone  has  changed  here,  Grigg." 

"I've  tried  not  to  believe  it." 

"I've  felt  it  increasingly  for  several  years.  When 
I've  passed  through.  Even  in  your  letters.  It's  been 
hard  to  speak  before.  For  that  matter,  I  had  formu- 


62  HILLS  OF  HAN 

lated  no  question.  It  was  just  an  impression.  But  to- 
day .  .  .  and' to-night  .  .  ." 

"It's  as  bad  as  that,  now." 

"Suppose  I  say  that  it's  as  definite  as  that,  Grigg. 
The  impression." 

Doane  let  his  head  drop  back  against  the  pillows; 
closed  his  eyes. 

"The  words  don't  matter,"  he  remarked. 

"No,  they  don't,  of  course."  Withery's  mind, 
trained  through  the  busy  years  to  the  sort  of  informal 
confessional  familiar  to  priests  of  other  than  the 
Roman  church,  was  clearing  itself  of  the  confusions 
of  friendship  and  was  ready  to  dismiss,  for  the  time, 
philosophically,  the  sense  of  personal  loss. 

"Is  it  something  you've  done,  Grigg?"  he  asked  now, 
gently.  "Have  you — " 

Doane  threw  out  an  interrupting  hand. 

"No,"  he  said  rather  shortly,  "I've  not  broken  the 
faith,  Henry,  not  in  act." 

"In  your  thoughts  only  ?" 

"Yes.  There." 

"It  is  doubt  ?  .  .  .  Strange,  Grigg,  I  never  knew 
a  man  whose  faith  had  in  it  such  vitality.  You've  in- 
spired thousands.  Tens  of  thousands.  You — I  will 
say  this,  now — you,  nothing  more,  really,  than  my 
thoughts  of  you  carried  me  through  my  bad  time. 
Through  those  doldrums  when  the  ardor  of  the  first 
few  years  had  burned  out  and  I  was  spent,  emotion- 
ally. It  was  with  your  help  that  I  found  my  feet 
again.  You  never  knew  that." 


THE  SHEPHERD  63 

"No.     I  didn't  know  that." 

"I  worried  a  good  deal,  then.  I  had  never  before 
been  aware  of  the  church  as  a  worldly  organization, 
as  a  political  mechanism.  I  hadn't  questioned  it.  It 
was  Hidderleigh's  shrewd  campaign  for  the  bishopric 
that  disturbed  me.  Then  the  money  raised  questions, 
of  course." 

"There's  been  a  campaign  on  this  winter,  over  in  the 
States,"  said  Doane,  speaking  slowly  and  thoughtfully. 
"Part  of  that  fund  is  to  be  sent  here  to  help  extend 
my  work  in  the  province.  They're  using  all  the  old 
emotional  devices.  All  the  claptrap.  Chaplain  Cabell 
is  touring  the  churches  with  his  little  cottage  organ 
and  his  songs." 

"But  the  need  is  real  out  here,  Grigg.  And  the 
people  at  home  must  be  stirred  into  recognizing  it. 
They  can't  be  reached  except  through  their  emotions. 
I've  been  through  all  that.  I  see  now,  clearly  enough, 
that  it's  an  imperfect  world.  We  must  do  the  best  we 
can  with  it.  Because  it  is  imperfect  we  must  keep  at 
our  work." 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  what  they're  doing,  Henry. 
Cabell,  all  that  crowd,  haven't  once  mentioned  Hansi. 
They're  talking  the  Congo." 

"But  you  forget,  Grigg,  that  the  emotional  interest 
of  our  home  people  in  China  has  run  out.  They 
thought  about  us  during  the  Boxer  trouble,  and  later, 
during  the  famine  in  Shensi.  Now,  because  of  the 
talk  of  slavery  and  atrocities  in  Central  Africa,  pub- 
lic interest  has  shifted  to  that  part  of  the  world." 


64  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"And  so  they're  playing  on  the  public  sympathy  for 
Africa  to  raise  money,  some  of  which  is  later  to  be  di- 
verted to  Central  China." 

"What  else  can  they  do?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  find  yourself  inclined  to  question  the  whole 
process?" 

"Yes." 

"Aren't  you  misplacing  your  emphasis,  Grigg?  We 
all  do  that,  of  course.  Now  and  then.  .  .  .  Isn't 
the  important  thing  for  you,  the  emphatic  thing,  to 
spread  the  word  of  God  in  Hansi  Province?"  He 
leaned  forward,  speaking  simply,  with  sincerity. 

Doane  closed  his  eyes  again;  and  compressed  his 
lips. 

Withery,  anxiously  watching  him,  savr  that  the 
healthy  color  was  leaving  his  face. 

After  a  silence  that  grew  steadily  in  intensity,  Doane 
at  last  opened  his  eyes,  and  spoke,  huskily,  but  with 
grim  force. 

"Of  course,  Henry,  you're  right.  Right  enough. 
These  things  are  details.  They're  on  my  nerves,  that's 
all.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  .  .  ."  He  sat  up,  slowly 
swung  his  feet  to  the  floor,  clasped  his  hands.  .  .  . 
"I'll  spare  you  my  personal  history  of  the  past  few 
years.  And,  of  course,  captious  criticism  of  the  church 
is  no  proper  introduction  to  what  I'm  going  to  say. 
During  these  recent  years  I've  been  groping  through 
my  own  Gethsemane.  It  has  been  a  terrible  time. 
There  have  been  many  moments  when  I've  questioned 


THE  SHEPHERD  65 

the  value  of  the  struggle.  If  I  had  been  as  nearly 
alone  as  it  has  seemed,  sometimes  ...  I  mean, 
if  there  hadn't  been  little  Betty  to  think  of  .  .  ." 

"I  understand,"  Withery  murmured. 

"In  a  way  I've  come  through  my  Valley.  My  head 
has  cleared  a  little.  And  now  I  know  only  too  clearly ; 
it  is  very  difficult;  in  a  way,  the  time  of  doubt  and 
groping  was  easier  to  bear  ...  I  know  that  I  am 
in  the  wrong  work." 

Withery,  with  moist  eyes,  studied  the  carpet. 

"You  are  sure?"  he  managed  to  ask. 

He  felt  rather  than  saw  his  friend's  slow  nod. 

"It's  a  relief,  of  course,  to  tell  you."  Doane  was 
speaking  with  less  effort  now;  but  his  color  had  not 
returned.  "There's  no  one  else.  I  couldn't  say  it  to 
Hidderleigh.  To  me  that  man  is  fundamentally  dis- 
honest." 

Withery  found  it  difficult  to  face  such  extreme 
frankness.  His  mind  slipped  around  it  into  another 
channel.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  that  Grigg  mustn't 
be  let  off  so  easily.  There  were  arguments.  .  .  . 

"One  thing  that  has  troubled  me,  even  lately,"  he 
said,  hunting  for  some  common  ground  of  thought 
and  speech,  "is  the  old  denominational  differences  back 
home.  I  can't  take  all  that  for  granted,  as  so  many  of 
our  younger  workers  do.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  the 
conference  last  year  should  have  spoken  out  more 
vigorously  on  that  one  point.  We  can  never  bring 
missionary  work  into  any  sort  of  unity  here  white  the 
denominational  spirit  is  kept  alive  at  home." 


66  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Doane  broke  out,  with  a  touch  of  impatience :  "We 
approach  the  shrewdest,  most  keenly  analytical  people 
on  earth,  the  Chinese,  with  something  near  a  hundred 
and  fifty  conflicting  varieties  of  the  one  true  religion. 
Too  often,  Henry,  we  try  to  pass  to  them  our  faith 
but  actually  succeed  only  in  exhibiting  the  curious 
prejudices  of  narrow  white  minds." 

This  was,  clearly,  not  a  happy  topic.  Withery 
sighed. 

"This — this  attitude  that  you  find  yourself  in — is 
really  a  conclusion,  Grigg?" 

"It  is  a  conclusion." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"It  would  be  a  calamity  if  you  were  to  give  up  your 
work  here,  in  the  midst  of  reconstruction." 

"No  man  is  essential,  Henry.  But  of  course,  just 
now,  it  would  be  difficult.  I  have  thought,  often, 
if  Boatwright  had  only  turned  out  a  stronger 
man.  .  .  ." 

"Grigg,  one  thing!  You  must  let  me  speak  of  it. 
.  .  .  Has  the  possibility  occurred  to  you  of  marry- 
ing again?" 

Doane  sprang  up  at  this ;  walked  the  floor. 

"Do  you  realize  what  you're  saying,  Henry!"  he 
cried  out. 

"I  understand,  Grigg,  but  you  and  I  are  old  enough 
to  know  that  in  the  case  of  a  vigorous  man  like  your- 
self—" 

Doane  threw  out  a  hand. 


THE  SHEPHERD  67 

"Henry,  I've  thought  of  everything!" 

A  little  later  he  stopped  and  stood  over  his  friend. 

"I  have  fought  battles  that  may  as  well  be  forgot- 
ten," he  said  deliberately.  "I  have  won  them,  over 
and  over,  to  no  end  whatever.  I  have  assumed  that 
these  victories  would  lead  in  time  to  a  sort  of  peace, 
even  to  resignation.  They  have  not.  Each  little  vic- 
tory now  seems  to  leave  me  further  back.  I'm  losing, 
not  gaining,  through  the  years.  It  was  when  I  finally 
nerved  myself  to  face  that  fact  that  I  found  myself 
facing  it  all — my  whole  life.  .  .  .  Henry,  I'm  full 
of  a  fire  and  energy  that  no  longer  finds  an  outlet  in 
my  work.  I  want  to  turn  to  new  fields.  If  I  don't, 
before  it's  too  late,  I  may  find  myself  on  the  rocks." 

Withery  thought  this  over.  Doane  was  still  pacing 
the  floor.  Withery,  pale  himself  now,  looked  up. 

"Perhaps,  then,"  he  said,  "you  had  better  break 
with  it." 

Doane  stopped  at  the  window ;  stared  out.  Withery 
thought  his  face  was  working. 

"Have  you  any  means  at  all  ?"  he  asked. 

Doane  moved  his  head  in  the  negative.  .  .  .  "Oh, 
my  books.  A  few  personal  things." 

"Of  course" — Withery's  voice  softened — "you've 
given  away  a  good  deal." 

"I've  given  everything," 

"Hum !  .  .  .  Have  you  thought  of  anything  else 
you  might  do?" 

Doane  turned.  "Henry,  I'm  forty-five  years  old. 
I  have  no  profession,  no  business  experience  beyond 


68  HILLS  OF  HAN 

the  little  administrative  work  here.  Yet  I  must  live, 
not  only  for  myself,  but  to  support  my  little  girl.  If  I 
do  quit,  and  try  to  find  a  place  in  the  business  world,  I 
shall  carry  to  my  grave  the  stigma  that  clings  always 
to  the  unfrocked  priest."  He  strode  to  the  door.  "I  tell 
you,  I've  thought  of  everything!  .  .  .  We're  get- 
ting nowhere  with  this.  I  appreciate  your  interest. 
But  .  .  .  I'm  sorry,  Henry.  Sleep  if  you  can.  Good 
night." 

They  met,  with  M.  Pourmont  and  the  others,  at 
breakfast. 

There  was  a  moment,  on  the  steps  of  the  gate  house, 
overlooking  the  narrow  busy  street,  when  they  silently 
clasped  hands. 

Then  Henry  Withery  crawled  in  under  the  blue 
curtains  of  his  cart  and  rode  away,  carrying  with 
him  a  mental  picture  of  a  huge  man,  stooping  a  little 
under  the  red  lintel  of  the  doorway,  his  strong  face 
sternly  set. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH 
1 

DOANE  stood  on  the  Bund  at  Hankow,  by  the 
railing,  his  great  frame  towering  above  the  pass- 
ers-by. He  had  lunched  with  the  consul  general,  an 
old  acquaintance.  He  had  arranged  to  stop  overnight, 
with  Betty,  in  a  missionary  compound.  In  the  morning 
they  would  take  the  weekly  Peking  Express  northward. 

The  wide  yellow  Yangtse  flowed  by,  between  its 
steep  mud  cliffs,  crowded  with  sampans — hundreds 
of  them  moored,  rail  to  rail,  against  the  opposite  bank, 
a  compact  floating  village  that  was  cluttered  and 
crowded  with  ragged  river- folk  and  deck-houses  of 
arched  matting  and  that  reared  skyward  a  thick  tangle 
of  masts  and  rigging.  The  smaller  boats  and  tubs  of 
the  water-beggars  lay  against  the  bank  just  beneath 
him,  expectantly  awaiting  the  Shanghai  steamer.  Out 
in  the  stream  several  stately  junks  lay  at  anchor;  and 
near  them  a  tiny  river  gunboat,  her  low  free-board 
glistening  white  in  the  warm  spring  sunshine,  a  wisp 
of  smoke  trailing  lazily  from  her  funnel,  the  Brit- 
ish ensign  hanging  in  folds  astern. 

Down  and  up  the  water  steps  were  moving  continu- 

69 


70  HILLS  OF  HAN 

ously  the  innumerable  water  bearers  whose  business 
it  was  to  supply  the  city  of  near  a  million  yellow  folk 
that  lay  just  behind  the  commercial  buildings  and  the 
pyramid-like  godowns  of  the  Bund. 

To  Doane  the  picture,  every  detail  of  which  had 
a  place  in  the  environment  of  his  entire  adult  life, 
seemed  unreal.  The  consul  general,  too,  had  been  un- 
real. His  talk,  mostly  of  remembered  if  partly  mel- 
lowed political  grievances  back  home,  of  the  great 
days  when  a  certain  "easy  boss"  was  in  power,  and 
later  of  the  mutterings  of  revolution  up  and  down  the 
Yangtse  Valley,  sounded  in  Doane's  ears  like  quaint 
idle  chatter  of  another  planet.  .  .  .  His  own  talk, 
it  seemed  now,  had  been  as  unreal  as  the  rest  of  it. 

Of  the  compliment  men  of  affairs  usually  paid  him, 
despite  his  calling,  in  speaking  out  as  man  to  man, 
Doane  had  never  thought  and  did  not  think  now.  He 
was  not  self-conscious. 

The  hours  of  sober  thought  that  followed  his  talk 
with  Henry  Withery  had  deepened  the  furrow  be- 
tween his  brows. 

In  an  odd  way  he  was  dating  from  that  talk.  It  had 
been  extraordinarily  futile.  It  had  to  come,  some  sort 
of  outbreak.  For  two  or  three  years  he  had  rather 
vaguely  recognized  this  fact,  and  as  vaguely  dreaded 
it.  Now  it  had  happened.  It  was  like  a  line  drawn 
squarely  across  his  life.  He  was  different  now;  per- 
haps more  honest,  certainly  franker  with  himself,  but 
different.  ...  It  had  shaken  him.  Sleep  left  him 
for  a  night  or  two.  Getting  away  for  this  trip  to  Han- 


RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH      71 

kow  seemed  a  good  thing.  He  had  to  be  alone,  walk- 
ing it  off,  and  thinking  .  .  .  thinking.  .  .  .  He 
walked  the  two  hundred  and  ninety  li  to  M.  Pour- 
mont's  compound,  at  Ping  Yang,  the  railhead  that 
spring  of  the  new  meter-guage  line  into  Hansi  Prov- 
ince, in  two  days.  The  mule  trains  took  three. 

He  dwelt  much  with  memories  of  his  daughter.  She 
had  been  a  winning  little  thing.  Until  the  terrible 
Boxer  year,  that  ended,  for  him,  in  the  death  of  his 
wife,  she  had  brought  continuous  happiness  into  their 
life. 

She  would  be  six  years  older  now.  He  couldn't  pic- 
ture that.  She  had  sent  an  occasional  snapshot  photo- 
graph; but  these  could  not  replace  his  vivid  memories 
of  the  child  she  had  been. 

He  was  tremulously  eager  to  see  her.  There  would 
be  little  problems  of  adjustment.  Over  and  over  he 
told  himself  that  he  mustn't  be  stern  with  her;  he  must 
watch  that. 

He  felt  some  uncertainty  regarding  her  training.  It 
was  his  hope  that  she  would  fit  into  the  work  of  the 
mission.  It  seemed,  indeed,  necessary.  She  would  be 
contributing  eager  young  life.  Her  dutiful,  rather 
perfunctory  letters  had  made  that  much  about  her 
clear.  They  needed  that. 

During  the  talk  with  Withery — it  kept  coming,  up — 
he  had  heard  his  own  voice  saying — in  curiously  de- 
liberate tones — astonishing  things.  He  had  sent  his 
friend  away  in  a  state  of  deepest  concern.  He  thought 
of  writing  him.  A  letter  might  catch  him  at 


72  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Shanghai.  There  would  be  time  in  the  morning,  dur- 
ing the  long  early  hours  before  this  household  down 
here  would  be  awaking  and  gathering  for  breakfast. 
It  would  help,  he  felt  impulsively,  to  explain  fully. 
.  .  .  But  what  ?  What  was  it  that  was  to  be  so  eas- 
ily explained?  Could  he  erase,  with  a  few  strokes  of  a 
pen,  the  unhappy  impression  he  had  made  that  night  on 
Henry's  brain  ? 

The  suggestion  of  marriage,  with  its  implication  of 
a  rather  cynical  worldly  wisdom,  had  come  oddly  from 
the  devout  Henry.  Henry  was  older,  too.  But  Doane 
winced  at  the  mere  recollection.  He  was  almost  ex- 
citedly sensitive  on  the  topic.  He  had  put  women  out 
of  his  mind,  and  was  determined  to  keep  them  out. 
But  at  times  thoughts  of  them  slipped  in. 

On  the  walk  to  Ping  Yang,  the  second  afternoon, 
he  was  swinging  down  a  valley  where  the  road  was 
no  more  than  the  stony  bed  of  an  anciently-diverted 
stream.  The  caravan  of  a  mandarin  passed,  bound 
doubtless  from  Peking  to  a  far  western  province.  That 
it  was  a  great  mandarin  was  indicated  by  his  richly 
decorated  sedan  chair  borne  by  sixteen  footmen 
with  squadrons  of  cavalry  before  and  behind.  Five 
mule  litters  followed,  each  with  a  brightly  painted, 
young  face  pressed  against  the  tiny  square  window, 
the  wives  or  concubines  of  the  great  one.  Each  de- 
murely studied  him  through  slanting  eyes.  And  the 
last  one  smiled;  quickly,  brightly.  It  was  death  to 
be  caught  at  that,  yet  life  was  too  strong  for  her.  He 
walked  feverishly  after  that.  He  had  said  one  thing 


RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH      73 

to  Henry  .  .  .  something  never  before  formulated, 
even  in  his  own  thinking.  What  was  it  ?  Oh,  this ! — 
"Henry,  I'm  full  of  a  fire  and  energy  that  no  longer 
find  an  outlet  in  my  work.  I  want  to  turn  to  new 
fields.  If  I  don't,  before  it's  too  late,  I  may  find  my- 
self on  the  rocks." 

There  was  something  bitterly,  if  almost  boyishly 
true  in  that  statement.  The  vital,  vigorous  adult  that 
was  developing  within  him,  now,  in  the  forties,  seemed 
almost  unrelated  to  the  young  man  he  had  been.  He 
felt  life,  strength,  power.  In  spirit  he  was  younger 
than  ever.  All  he  had  done,  during  more  than  twenty 
years,  seemed  but  a  practising  for  something  real,  a 
schooling.  Now,  standing  there,  a  stern  figure,  on  the 
Hankow  Bund,  he  was  aware  of  a  developed,  flower- 
ing instinct  for  the  main  currents  of  the  mighty  social 
stream,  for  rough,  fresh  contacts,  large  enterprises. 
His  religion  had  been  steadily  widening  out  from  the 
creed  of  his  youth,  gradually  including  all  living  things, 
all  growth,  far  outspreading  the  set  boundaries  of 
churchly  thought.  This  development  of  his  spirit  had 
immensely  widened  his  spiritual  influence  among  the 
Chinese  of  the  province  while  at  the  same  time  mak- 
ing it  increasingly  different  to  talk  frankly  with  fellow 
churchmen. 

He  had  come  to  find  more  of  the  bread  of  life  in 
Emerson  and  Montaigne,  Chaucer  and  Shakespeare; 
less  in  Milton  and  Peter.  He  could  consider  Burns 
now  with  a  new  pity,  without  moral  condescension, 
with  simple  love.  He  could  feel  profoundly  the  moral 


74  HILLS  OF  HAN 

triumph  of  Hester  Prynne,  while  wondering  at  what 
seemed  his  own  logic.  He  struggled  against  a  weak- 
ening faith  in  the  authenticity  of  divine  revelation,  as 
against  a  deepening  perception  that  the  Confucian  pre- 
cepts might  well  be  a  healthy  and  even  sufficient  out- 
growth of  fundamental  Chinese  characteristics. 

He  thought,  at  times  rather  grimly,  of  the  trials  for 
heresy  that  now  and  then  rocked  the  church;  and 
wondered,  as  grimly,  how  soon  the  heresy  hunters 
would  be  getting  around  to  him.  The  smallest  inci- 
dent might,  sooner  or  later  would,  set  them  after  him. 

Henry  Withery  was  certain,  in  spite  of  his  personal 
loyalty,  out  of  his  very  concern,  to  drop  a  word.  And 
there  was  literally  no  word  he  could  drop,  after  their 
talk,  but  would  indicate  potential  heresy  in  his  friend, 
James  Griggsby  Doane. 

Or  it  might  come  from  within  the  compound.  Or 
from  a  passing  stranger.  Or  from  remarks  of  his  own 
at  the  annual  conference.  Or  from  letters. 

There  were  moments  when  he  could  have  invited 
exposure  as  a  relief  from  doubt  and  torment  of  soul. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  hypocrite  in  him.  But  in 
soberer  moments  he  felt  certain  that  it  was  better  to 
wait  until  he  could  find,  if  not  divine  guidance,  at  least 
an  intelligent  earthly  plan. 

All  he  could  do,  as  it  stood,  was  to  work  harder  and 
harder  with  body  and  mind.  And  to  shoulder  more 
and  more  responsibility.  Without  that  he  would  be 
like  a  wild  engine,  charging  to  destruction. 

His  daughter  would  be,  for  a  time  certainly,  one 


RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH      75 

more  burden.  He  was  glad.  Anything  that  would 
bring  life  real  again!  Work  above  all;  every  waking 
moment,  if  possible,  filled;  his  mental  and  physical 
powers  taxed  to  their  uttermost;  that  was  the  thing; 
crowd  out  the  brooding,  the  mere  feeling.  Action,  all 
the  time,  and  hard,  objective  thought.  The  difficulty 
was  that  his  powers  were  so  great;  he  seemed  never 
to  tire  any  more;  his  thoughts  could  dwell  on  many 
planes  at  once;  he  actually  needed  but  a  few  hours' 
sleep.  .  .  .  And  so  Betty  would  be  a  young  woman 
now,  mysteriously  as  old  as  her  mother  on  her  wed- 
ding day;  a  young  woman  of  unknown  interests  and 
sympathies,  of  a  world  he  himself  had  all  but  ceased 
to  know.  And  it  came  upon  him  suddenly,  then  with 
tremendous  emotional  force,  that  he  had  no  heritage 
to  leave  her  but  a  good  name. 

Hie  stood  gripping  the  railing,  head  back,  gazing  up 
out  of  misty  eyes  at  a  white-flecked  blue  sky.  A  prayer 
arose  from  his  heart  and,  a  whisper,  passed  his  lips:- 
"O  God,  show  me  Thy  truth,  that  it  may  set  me 
free!" 

2 

In  the  intensity  of  his  brooding  he  had  forgotten  to 
watch  for  the  steamer.  But  now  he  became  aware  of 
a  stir  of  life  along  the  river- front.  The  beggars  were 
paddling  out  into  the  stream,  making  ready  their  little 
baskets  at  the  ends  of  bamboo  poles. 

Over  the  cliffs,  down-stream,  hung  a  long  film  of 
smoke.  The  steamer  had  rounded  the  bend  and  was 


76  HILLS  OF  HAN 

plowing  rapidly  up  toward  the  twin  cities.  He  could 
make  out  the  two  white  stripes  on  the  funnel,  and  the 
cluster  of  ventilators  about  it,  and  the  new  canvas 
across  the  front  of  the  bridge.  A  moment  later  he 
could  see  the  tiny  figures  crowding  the  rail. 

The  steamer  warped  in  alongside  a  new  wharf. 

Doane  stood  near  the  gangway,  all  emotion,  nearly 
out  of  control. 

From  below  hundreds  of  coolies,  countrymen  and 
ragged  soldiers  swarmed  up,  to  be  herded  off  at  one 
side  of  the  wharf.  The  local  coolies  went  aboard  and 
promptly  started  unloading  freight,  handling  crates 
and  bales  of  half  a  ton  weight  with  the  quick,  half 
grunted,  half  sung  chanteys,  intricately  rhythmical, 
with  which  all  heavy  labor  is  accompanied  in  the 
Yangtse  Valley. 

Two  spectacled  Chinese  merchants  in  shimmering 
silk  robes  came  down  the  gangway.  A  tall  American, 
in  civilian  dress  and  overcoat  but  carrying  a  leather 
sword  case,  followed.  Two  missionaries  came,  one  in 
Chinese  dress  with  a  cue  attached  to  his  skull-cap, 
bowing  to  the  stern  giant  as  they  passed.  Then  a 
French  father  in  black  robe  and  shovel  hat ;  a  group  of 
Englishmen;  a  number  of  families,  American,  Brit- 
ish, French;  and  finally,  coming  along  the  shaded 
deck,  the  familiar  kindly  face  and  silvery  beard  of 
Doctor  Hasmer — he  was  distinctly  growing  older, 
Hasmer — then  his  wife,  and,  emerging  from  the  cabin, 
a  slim  little  figure,  rather  smartly  dressed,  extraordi- 
narily pretty,  radiating  a  quick  charm  as  she  hurried 


RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH      77 

to  the  gangway,  there  pausing  a  moment  to  search  the 
wharf. 

Her  eyes  met  his.    She  smiled. 

It  was  Betty.  He  felt  her  charm,  but  his  heart  was 
sinking. 

She  kissed  him.  She  seemed  all  enthusiasm,  even 
very  happy.  But  a  moment  later,  walking  along  the 
wharf  toward  the  Bund,  her  soft  little  face  was  sad. 
He  wondered,  as  his  thoughts  whirled  around,  about 
that. 

Her  clothes,  her  beauty,  her  bright  manner,  indi- 
cating a  girlish  eagerness  to  be  admired,  wouldn't  do 
at  the  mission.  And  she  couldn't  wear  those  trim  little 
shoes  with  heels  half  an  inch  higher  than  a  man's. 

She  had,  definitely,  the  gift  and  the  thought  of 
adorning  herself.  She  was  a  good  girl;  there  was 
stuff  in  her.  But  it  wouldn't  do;  not  out  there  in 
T'ainan.  And  she  looked  like  anything  in  the  world 
but  a  teacher. 

She  fascinated  him.  She  was  the  lovely  creature  his 
own  little  girl  had  become.  Walking  beside  her  up 
the  Bund,  chatting  with  the  Hasmers,  making  a  fair 
show  of  calm,  his  heart  swelled  with  love  and  pride. 
She  was  delicate,  shyly  adorable,  gently  feminine. 

It  was  going  to  be  difficult  to  speak  about  her  cos- 
tume and  her  charming  ways.  It  wouldn't  do  to  crush 
her.  She  was  quick  enough;  very  likely  she  would 
pick  up  the  tone  of  the  compound  very  quickly  and 
adapt  herself  to  it. 


78  HILLS  OF  HAN 

3 

Young  Li  Hsien,  of  T'ainan,  had  come  up  on  the 
boat.  Doane  talked  a  moment  with  him  on  the  wharf. 
He  was  taking  the  Peking  Express  in  the  morning, 
traveling  first-class.  The  boy's  father  was  a  wealthy 
banker  and  had  always  been  generous  with  his  first- 
born son. 

Li  appeared  in  the  dining-car  at  noon,  calmly  smil- 
ing, and,  at  Doane's  invitation,  sat  with  him  and 
Betty.  He  carried  a  copy  of  Thus  Spake  Zarathustra, 
in  English,  with  a  large  number  of  protruding  paper 
bookmarks. 

Doane  glanced  in  some  surprise  at  the  volume  lying 
rather  ostentatiously  on  the  table,  and  then  at  the  pig- 
tailed  young  man  who  ate  foreign  food  with  an  eager- 
ness and  a  relish  that  indicated  an  excited  interest  in 
novel  experiment  not  commonly  found  among  his 
race. 

They  talked  in  Chinese.  Li  had  much  to  say  of  the 
Japanese.  He  admired  them  for  adopting  and  adapt- 
ing to  their  own  purposes  the  material  achievements 
of  the  Western  world.  He  had  evidently  heard  some- 
thing of  Theodore  Roosevelt  and  rather  less  of  Lloyd 
George  and  Karl  Marx.  Doane  was  of  the  opinion, 
later,  that  during  the  tiffin  hour  the  lad  had  told  all 
he  had  learned  in  six  months  at  Tokio.  When  asked 
why  he  was  not  finishing  out  his  college  year  he  smiled 
enigmatically  and  spoke  of  duties  at  home.  He  knew, 
of  course,  that  Doane  would  instantly  dismiss  the  rea- 


RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH      79 

son  as  meaningless;  it  was  his  Chinese  way  of  sug- 
gesting that  he  preferred  not  to  answer  the  question. 

Twenty- four  hours  later  they  transferred  their  lug- 
gage to  the  Hansi  Line,  and  headed  westward  into 
the  red  hills;  passing,  within  an  hour,  through  the 
southern  extension  of  the  Great  Wall,  now  a  ruin. 
The  night  was  passed  in  M.  Pourmont's  compound  at 
Ping  Yang.  After  this  there  were  two  other  nights  in 
ancient,  unpleasant  village  inns. 

Doane  made  every  effort  to  lessen  the  discomforts 
of  the  journey.  Outwardly  kind,  inwardly  emotions 
fought  with  one  another.  He  felt  now  that  he  should 
never  have  sent  for  Betty;  never  in  the  world.  She 
seemed  to  have  had  no  practical  training.  She  grew 
quiet  and  wistful  as  the  journey  proceeded.  The  little 
outbreaks  of  enthusiasm  over  this  or  that  half-remem- 
bered glimpse  of  native  life  came  less  frequently  from 
day  to  day. 

There  were  a  number  of  young  men  at  Ping  Yang; 
one  French  engineer  who  spoke  excellent  English ;  an 
Australian;  others,  and  two  or  three  young  matrons 
who  had  adventurously  accompanied  their  husbands 
into  the  interior.  They  all  called  in  the  evening.  The 
hospitable  Pourmont  took  up  rugs  and  turned  on  the 
talking-machine,  and  the  young  people  danced. 

Doane  sat  apart,  watched  the  gracefully  gliding 
couples;  tried  to  smile.  The  dance  was  on,  Betty  in 
the  thick  of  it,  before  he  realized  what  was  meant.  He 
couldn't  have  spoken  without  others  hearing.  It  was 
plain  enough  that  she  entered  into  it  without  a  thought ; 


80  HILLS  OF  HAN 

though  as  the  evening  wore  on  he  thought  she  glanced 
at  him,  now  and  then,  rather  thoughtfully.  And  he 
found  himself,  at  these  moments,  smiling  with  greater 
determination  and  nodding  at  her. 

The  incident  plunged  him,  curiously,  swiftly,  into 
the  heart  of  his  own  dilemma.  He  rested  an  elbow  on 
a  table  and  shaded  his  eyes,  trying,  as  he  had  been  try- 
ing all  these  years,  to  think. 

What  a  joyous  little  thing  she  was !  What  a  fairy ! 
And  dancing  seemed,  now,  a  means  of  expression 
for  her  youth  and  her  gift  of  charm.  And  there  was 
an  exquisite  delight,  he  found,  in  watching  her  skill 
with  the  young  men.  She  was  gay,  quick,  tactful. 
Clearly  young  men  had,  before  this,  admired  her.  He 
wondered  what  sort  of  men. 

She  interrupted  this  brooding  with  one  of  those 
slightly  perturbed  glances.  Quickly  he  lowered  his 
hand  in  order  that  she  might  see  him  smile;  but  she 
had  whirled  away. 

Joy !  .  .  .  Not  before  this  moment,  not  in  all  the 
years  of  puzzled,  sometimes  bitter  thinking,  had  he 
realized  the  degree  in  which  mission  life — for  that 
matter,  the  very  religion  of  his  denominational  va- 
riety— shut  joy  out.  They  were  afraid  of  it.  They 
fought  it.  In  their  hearts  they  associated  it  with  vice. 
It  was  of  this  world ;  their  eyes  were  turned  wholly  to 
another. 

His  teeth  grated  together.  The  muscles  of  his 
strong  jaws  moved ;  bunched  on  his  cheeks.  He  knew 
now  that  he  believed  in  joy  as  an  expression  of  life. 


RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH      81 

Had  he  known  where  to  turn  for  the  money  he 
would  gladly  have  planned,  at  this  moment,  to  send 
Betty  back  to  the  States,  give  her  more  of  an  educa- 
tion, even  arrange  for  her  to  study  drawing  and  paint- 
ing. For  on  the  train,  during  their  silences,  she  had 
sketched  the  French  conductor,  the  French-speaking 
Chinese  porter,  the  sleepy,  gray-brown,  walled  villages, 
the  wide,  desert-like  flats  of  the  Hoang-Ho,  the  tum- 
bling hills.  He  was  struck  by  her  persistence  at  it ;  the 
girlish  energy  she  put  into  it. 

That  night,  late,  long  after  the  music  had  stopped 
and  the  last  guests  had  left  for  their  dwellings  about 
the  large  compound,  she  came  across  the  corridor  and 
tapped  at  his  door.  She  wore  a  kimono  of  Japan ;  her 
abundant  brown  hair  rippled  about  her  shoulders. 

"Just  one  more  good  night,  Daddy,"  she  murmured. 

And  then,  turning  away,  she  added  this,  softly : 

"I  never  thought  about  the  dancing  until — well, 
we'd  started.  .  .  ." 

He  stood  a  long  moment  in  silence,  then  said : 

"I'm  glad  you  had  a  pleasant  evening,  dear.  We — 
we're  rather  quiet  at  T'ainan." 


Pao  Ting  Chuan  was  a  man  of  great  shrewdness 
and  considerable  distinction  of  appearance,  skilled  in 
ceremonial  intercourse,  a  master  of  the  intricate 
courses  a  prominent  official  must  steer  between  beauti- 
fully phrased  moral  and  ethical  maxims  on  the  one 


82  HILLS  OF  HAN 

hand  and  complicated  political  trickery  on  the  other. 
But,  as  Doane  had  said,  he  knew  the  cost  of  indem- 
nities. It  was  on  his  shrewdness,  his  really  great  in- 
telligence, and  on  his  firm  control  of  the  "gentry  and 
people"  of  the  province  that  Doane  relied  to  prevent 
any  such  frightful  slaughter  of  whites  and  destruction 
of  their  property  as  had  occurred  in  1900.  Pao,  un- 
like most  of  the  higher  mandarins,  was  Chinese,  not 
Manchu. 

The  tao-tai  of  the  city  of  T'ainan-fu,  Chang  Chih 
Ting,  was  an  older  man  than  Pao,  less  vigorous  of 
body  and  mind,  simpler  and  franker.  He  was  of  those 
who  bewail  the  backwardness  of  China. 

From  the  tao-tai's  yamen,  on  the  first  day  of  the 
great  April  fair,  set  forth  His  Excellency  in  full  pan- 
oply of  state — a  green  official  chair  with  many  bear- 
ers, an  escort  of  twenty  footmen,  with  runners  on 
ahead. 

Behind  this  caravan,  hidden  from  view  in  the  depths 
of  a  blue  Peking  cart,  with  the  conventional  extra 
servant  dangling  his  heels  over  the  foreboard,  rode 
Griggsby  Doane. 

The  principal  feature  of  the  opening  day  was  a 
theatrical  performance.  The  play,  naturally,  was  an 
historical  satire,  shouted  and  occasionally  sung  by  the 
heavily-costumed  actors,  to  a  continuous  accompani- 
ment of  wailing  strings.  The  stage  was  a  platform  in 
the  open  air,  under  a  tree  hung  with  bannerets  in- 
scribed to  the  particular  spirit  supposed  to  dwell  within 
its  encircling  bark. 


RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH     83 

His  Excellency  stood,  with  Doane,  on  a  knoll,'  look- 
ing out  over  the  heads  of  the  vast  audience  toward 
the  stage.  Doane  estimated  the  attendance  at  near 
ten  thousand. 

The  play,  begun  in  the  early  morning,  was  now  well 
advanced.  At  its  conclusion,  the  audience  was  be- 
ginning to  break  up  when  a  slim  blue-clad  figure 
mounted  the  platform  and  began  a  hurried  speech. 

Chang  and  Doane  looked  at  each  other ;  then  as  one 
man  moved  forward  down  the  knoll  with  the  throng. 
The  tao-tai's  attendants  followed,  in  scattered  for- 
mation. 

The  speaker  was  Li  Hsien. 

Slowly  the  magistrate  and  the  missionary  made  their 
way  toward  the  stage. 

At  first  the  crowd,  at  sight  of  the  magistrate's  but- 
ton and  embroidered  insignia,  made  way  as  well  as 
they  could.  But  as  the  impassioned  phrases  of  Li  Hsien 
sank  into  their  minds  resistance  developed.  From  here 
and  there  in  the  crowd  came  phrases  expressing  a  vile 
contempt  for  foreigners  such  as  Doane  had  not  heard 
for  years. 

Li  was  lashing  himself  up,  crying  out  more  and  more 
vigorously  against  the  Ho  Shan  Company,  the  bar- 
barous white  governments  from  which  it  derived  force, 
foreign  pigs  everywhere.  The  crowds  closed,  solidly, 
before  the  two  advancing  men. 

The  magistrate  waved  his  arms ;  shouted  a  command 
that  Li  leave  the  platform.  Li,  hearing  only  a  voice  of 
opposition  in  the  crowd,  poured  out  voluble  scorn  on 


84  HILLS  OF  HAN 

his  head.  The  crowd  jostled  Doane.  A  stick  struck  his 
cheek.  He  whirled  and  caught  the  stick,  but  the  wielder 
of  it  escaped  in  the  crowd. 

Chang  tried  to  reason,  then,  with  the  few  hundred 
within  ear-shot. 

The  sense  of  violence  seemed  to  be  increasing.  A 
few  of  the  magistrate's  escort  were  struggling  through. 
These  formed  a  circle  about  him  and  Doane. 

Li  shouted  out  charge  after  charge  against  the  com- 
pany. He  begged  his  hearers  to  be  brave,  as  he  was 
brave;  to  destroy  all  the  works  of  the  company  with 
dynamite;  to  wreck  all  the  grounds  of  the  foreign 
engineer  at  Ping  Yang  and  kill  all  the  occupants ;  to 
kill  foreigners  everywhere  and  assert  the  ancient  in- 
tegrity and  superiority  of  China.  "Be  brave!"  he 
cried  again.  "See,  I  am  brave.  I  die  for  Hansi. 
Can  not  you,  too,  die  for  Hansi?  Can  not  you  think 
of  me,  of  how  I  died  for  our  cause,  and  yourself,  in 
memory  of  my  act,  fight  for  your  beloved  country, 
that  it  may  again  be  the  proud  queen  of  the  earth?" 

He  drew  a  revolver  from  his  sleeve ;  shot  twice ;  fell 
to  the  stage  in  a  widening  pool  of  blood. 

At  once  the  vast  crowd  went  wild.  Those  near  the 
white  man  turned  on  him  as  if  to  kill  him.  His  clothes 
were  torn,  his  head  cut.  Man  after  man  he  knocked 
down  with  his  powerful  fists.  Before  many  moments 
he  was  exulting  in  the  struggle,  in  his  strength  and  the 
full  use  of  it. 

The  magistrate  struggled  beside  him.    For  the  peo- 


RIDDLE  OF  LIFE,  AND  OF  DEATH      85 

pie,  in  their  frenzy,  forgot  or  ignored  his  rank  and 
overwhelmed  him. 

The  runners  fought  as  well  as  they  could.  Two  or 
three  of  them  fell.  Then  a  body  of  horsemen  came 
charging  into  the  crowd,  soldiers  from  the  judge's  ya- 
men,  all  on  shaggy  little  Manchu  ponies,  swinging 
clubbed  carbines  as  they  rode.  Right  and  left,  men  and 
boys  fell.  The  crowd  broke  and  scattered. 

Chang,  bleeding  from  several  small  wounds,  his 
exquisitely  embroidered  silken  garments  torn  nearly 
off  his  body,  made  his  way  back  to  the  green  chair. 

Doane  was  escorted  by  soldiers  to  the  mission  com- 
pound. He  slipped  in  to  wash  off  the  blood  and  change 
his  clothes  without  being  seen  by  Betty  or  any  of  the 
whites. 

Shortly  came  two  runners  of  His  Excellency,  Pao 
Ting  Chuan,  bearing  trays  of  gifts.  And  a  Chinese 
note  expressing  deepest  regret  and  pledging  complete 
protection  in  the  future. 

Doane  dismissed  the  runners  with  a  Mexican  dollar 
each,  and  thoughtfully  considered  the  situation.  Pao 
was  strong,  very  strong.  Yet  the  self-destruction  of 
Li  Hsien  would  act  as  a  flaming  signal  to  the  people. 
It  was  the  one  appeal  that  might  rouse  them  beyond 
control. 


CHAPTER  V 
IN  T'AINAN 

1 

THE  Boatwrights  were  at  this  time  in  the  thirties ; 
he  perhaps  thirty-six  or  seven,  she  thirty-three 
or  four.  As  has  already  been  noted  through  the  ob- 
serving eyes  of  Mr.  Withery,  Elmer  Boatwright  had 
lost  the  fresh  enthusiasm  of  his  first  years  in  the  prov- 
ince. And  he  had  by  no  means  attained  the  mellow 
wisdom  that  seldom  so  much  as  begins  to  appear  in  a 
man  before  forty.  His  was  a  daily  routine  of  innumer- 
able petty  tasks  and  responsibilities.  He  had  come  to 
be  a  washed-out  little  man,  whose  unceasing  activity 
was  somehow  unconvincing.  He  had  stopped  having 
opinions,  even  views.  He  taught,  he  kept  accounts  and 
records,  he  conducted  meetings,  he  prayed  and  some- 
times preached  at  meetings  of  the  students  and  the 
native  Christians,  he  was  kind  in  a  routine  way,  his 
rather  patient  smile  was  liked  about  the  compound,  but 
the  gift  of  personality  was  not  his.  Even  his  religion 
seemed  at  times  to  have  settled  into  routine.  .  .  . 
He  was  small  in  stature,  not  plump,  with  light  thin 
hair  and  a  light  thin  mustache. 

His  wife  was  taller  than  he,  more  vigorous,  more 

86 


IN  TAINAN  87 

positive,  with  something  of  an  executive  gift.  The 
domestic  management  of  the  compound  was  her 
province,  with  teaching  in  spare  hours.  Her  husband, 
with  fewer  petty  activities  to  absorb  his  energy  until 
his  life  settled  into  a  mold,  might  have  exhibited  some 
of  the  interesting  emotional  quality  that  is  rather 
loosely  called  temperament;  for  that  matter  it  was 
still  a  possibility  during  the  soul-shaking  changes  of 
middle  life;  certainly  his  odd,  early  taste  for  taxi- 
dermy had  carried  him  to  the  borders  of  a  sort  of 
artistry;  but  her  own  gift  was  distinctly  that  of  activ- 
ity. She  seemed  a  wholly  objective  person.  She  was 
physically  strong,  inclined  to  sternness,  or  at  least  to 
rigidity  of  view,  yet  was  by  no  means  unkind.  The 
servants  respected  her.  She  was  troubled  by  no  doubts. 
Her  religious  faith,  like  her  housekeeping  practise, 
was  a  settled  thing.  Apparently  her  thinking  was  all 
of  the  literal  things  about  her.  Of  humor  she  had 
never  shown  a  trace.  Without  the  strong  proselyting 
impetus  that  had  directed  and  colored  her  life  she 
might  have  become  a  rather  hard,  sharp-tongued  vil- 
lage housewife.  But  at  whatever  cost  to  herself  she 
had  brought  her  tongue  under  control.  As  a  result, 
having  no  mental  lightness  or  grace,  she  talked  hardly 
at  all.  When  she  disapproved,  which  was  not  seldom, 
she  became  silent. 

The  relation  between  this  couple  and  Griggsby 
Doane  had  grown  subtly  complicated  through  the 
years  that  followed  the  death  of  Mrs.  Doane.  Doane, 
up  in  his  simply  furnished  attic  room,  living  wholly 


88  HILLS  OF  HAN 

alone,  never  interfered  in  the  slightest  detail  of  Mrs. 
Boatwright's  management.  Like  her,  when  he  dis- 
approved, he  kept  still.  But  he  might  as  well  have 
spoken  out,  for  she  knew,  nearly  always,  what  he  was 
thinking.  The  deepest  blunder  she  made  during  this 
period  was  to  believe,  as  she  firmly  did,  that  she  knew 
all,  instead  of  nearly  all  his  thoughts.  The  side  of 
him  that  she  was  incapable  of  understanding,  the  in- 
tensely, warmly  human  side,  appeared  to  her  merely 
as  a  curiously  inexplicable  strain  of  weakness  in  him 
that  might,  some  day,  crop  out  and  make  trouble.  She 
felt  a  strain  of  something  disastrous  in  his  nature.  She 
regarded  his  growing  passion  for  solitude  as  a  form  of 
self-indulgence.  She  knew  that  he  was  given  more 
and  more  to  brooding;  and  brooding — all  independent 
thought,  in  fact — alarmed  her.  Her  own  deepest  faith 
was  in  what  she  thought  of  as  submission  to  divine  will 
and  in  self-suppression.  But  she  respected  him  pro- 
foundly. And  he  respected  her.  Each  knew  some- 
thing of  the  strength  in  the  other's  nature.  And  so 
they  lired  on  from  day  to  day  and  year  to  year  in  a 
practised  avoidance  of  conflict  or  controversy.  And 
between  them  her  busy  little  husband  acted  as  a  buf- 
fer without  ever  becoming  aware  that  a  buffer  was 
necessary  in  this  quiet,  well-ordered,  industrious  com- 
pound. 

Regarding  the  change  of  tone  for  the  more  severe 
and  the  worse  that  had  impressed  and  disturbed  With- 
ery  none  of  the  three  but  Doane  had  formulated  a 
conscious  thought.  Probably  the  less  kindly  air  wa« 


IN  T'AINAN  89 

really  more  congenial  to  Mrs.  Boatwright.  Her  hus- 
band was  not  a  man  ever  to  survey  himself  and  his  en- 
vironment with  detachment.  And  both  were  much 
older  and  more  severe  at  this  time  than  they  were  to 
be  at  fifty. 

The  introduction  of  Betty  Doane  into  this  deli- 
cately balanced  household  precipitated  a  crisis.  Break- 
fast was  served  in  the  mission  house  at  a  quarter  to 
eight.  Not  once  in  a  month  was  it  five  minutes  late. 
A  delay  of  half  an  hour  would  have  thrown  Mrs. 
Boatwright  out  of  her  stride  for  the  day. 

During  the  first  few  days  after  her  arrival  Betty 
appeared  on  time.  It  was  clearly  necessary.  Mrs. 
Boatwright  was  hostile.  Her  father  was  busy  and 
preoccupied.  She  herself  was  moved  deeply  by  a 
girlish  determination  to  find  some  small  niche  for  her- 
self in  this  driving  little  community.  The  place  was 
strange  to  her.  There  seemed  little  or  no  companion- 
ship. Even  Miss  Hemphill,  the  head  teacher,  whom 
she  remembered  from  her  girlhood,  and  Dr.  Mary 
Cassin,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  dispensary  and  who 
had  a  pleasant,  almost  pretty  face,  seemed  as  preoccu- 
pied as  Griggsby  Doane.  During  her  mother's  life- 
time there  had  been  an  air  of  friendliness,  of  kindness, 
about  the  compound  that  was  gone  now.  Perhaps  less 
work  had  been  accomplished  then  than  now  under  the 
firm  rule  of  Mrs.  Boatwright,  but  it  had  been  a  happier 
little  community. 

From  the  moment  she  rode  in  through  the  great 
oak,  nail-studded  gates  of  the  compound,  and  the 


90  HILLS  OF  HAN 

mules  lurched  to  their  knees,  and  her  father  helped 
her  out  through  the  little  side  door  of  the  red  and  blue 
litter,  Betty  knew  that  she  was  exciting  disapproval. 
The  way  they  looked  at  her  neat  traveling  suit,  her 
becoming  turban,  her  shoes,  worked  sharply  on  her 
sensitive  young  nerves.  She  was  aware  even  of  the 
prim  way  they  walked,  these  women — of  their  ex- 
tremely modest  self-control — and  of  the  puzzling  con- 
trast set  up  with  the  free  activity  of  her  own  slim 
body ;  developed  by  dancing  and  basket  ball  and  healthy 
romping  into  a  grace  that  had  hitherto  been  uncon- 
scious. 

And  almost  from  that  first  moment,  herself  hardly 
aware  of  what  she  was  about  but  feeling  that  she 
must  be  wrong,  struggling  bravely  against  an  increas- 
ing hurt,  her  unrooted,  nervously  responsive  young 
nature  struggled  to  adapt  itself  to  the  new  environ- 
ment. A  pucker  appeared  between  her  brows;  her 
voice  became  hushed  and  faintly,  shyly  earnest  in 
tone.  Mrs.  Boatwright  at  once  gave  her  some  classes 
of  young  girls.  Betty  went  to  Miss  Hemphill  for  de- 
tailed advice,  and  earnestly  that  first  evening  read 
into  a  work  on  pedagogics  that  the  older  teacher,  after 
a  kindly  enough  talk,  lent  her. 

She  went  up  to  her  father's  study,  just  before  bed- 
time on  the  first  evening,  in  a  spirit  of  determined 
good  humor.  She  wanted  him  to  see  how  well  she  was 
taking  hold.  .  .  .  But  she  came  down  in  a  state  of 
depression  that  kept  her  awake  for  a  long  time  lying 
in  her  narrow  iron  bed,  gazing  out  into  the  starlit 


IN  T'AINAN  91 

Chinese  heavens.  She  felt  his  grave  kindness,  but 
found  that  she  didn't  know  him.  Here  in  the  com- 
pound, with  all  his  burden  of  responsibility  settled  on 
his  broad  shoulders,  he  had  receded  from  her.  He 
would  sit  and  look  at  her,  with  sadness  in  his  eyes,  not 
catching  all  she  said;  then  would  start  a  little,  and 
smile,  and  take  her  hand. 

She  found  that  she  couldn't  unpack  all  her  things; 
not  for  days.  There  were  snapshots  of  boy  and  girl 
members  of  "the  crowd,"  away  off  there,  beyond  the 
brown  hills,  beyond  the  ruined  wall,  beyond  the  yel- 
low plains,  and  the  Pacific  Ocean  and  the  wide  United 
States,  off  in  a  little  New  Jersey  town,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  world.  There  were  parcels  of  dance  pro- 
grams, with  little  white  pencils  dangling  from  silken 
white  cords.  There  were  programs  of  plays,  with 
cryptic  pencilings,  and  copies  of  a  high-school  paper, 
and  packets  of  letters.  She  couldn't  trust  herself  to 
look  at  these  treasures.  And  she  put  her  drawing 
things  away. 

And  other  more  serious  difficulties  arose  to  provoke 
sober  thoughts.  One  occurred  the  first  time  she  played 
tennis  with  her  father;  the  day  before  Li  Hsien's  sui- 
cide. The  court  had  been  laid  out  on  open  ground  ad- 
joining the  compound.  Small  school  buildings  and  a 
wall  shut  it  off  from  the  front  street,  and  a  Chinese 
house-wall  blocked  the  other  end ;  but  the  farther  side 
lay  open  to  a  narrow  footway.  Here  a  number  of 
Chinese  youths  gathered  and  watched  the  play.  It 
happened  that  none  of  the  white  women  attached  to 


92  HILLS  OF  HAN 

the  mission  at  this  time  was  a  tennis  player;  and  the 
spectacle  of  a  radiant  girl  darting  about  with  grace  and 
zest  and  considerable  athletic  skill  was  plainly  an  ex- 
perience to  the  onlookers.  At  first  they  were  respect- 
ful enough;  but  as  their  numbers  grew  voices  were 
raised,  first  in  laughter,  then  in  unpleasant  comment. 
Finally  all  the  voices  seemed  to  burst  out  at  once  in 
chorus  of  ribaldry  and  invective.  Betty  stopped  short 
in  her  play,  alarmed  and  confused. 

These  shouted  remarks  grew  in  insolence.  All 
through  her  girlhood  Betty  had  grown  accustomed 
to  occasional  small  outbreaks  from  the  riff-raff  of 
T'ainan.  She  recalled  that  her  father  had  always 
chosen  to  ignore  them.  But  there  was  a  new  boldness 
evident  in  the  present  group,  as  the  numbers  increased 
and  more  and  more  voices  joined  in.  And  it  was  evi- 
dent, from  an  embroidered  robe  here  and  there,  that 
not  all  were  riff-raff. 

Her  father  lowered  his  racket  and  walked  to  the  net. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  he  said;  "but  this  won't  do." 

Obediently  she  returned  to  the  mission  house ;  while 
Doane  went  over  to  the  fence.  But  before  he  could 
reach  it  the  youths,  jeering,  hurried  away.  That  eve- 
ning he  told  Betty  he  would  have  a  wall  built  along  the 
footway. 

2 

Within  less  than  a  week  Betty  found  herself  fight- 
ing off  a  heartsickness  that  was  to  prove,  for  the  time, 
irresistible.  On  the  sixth  evening,  after  the  house 


IN  T'AINAN  93 

had  become  still  and  her  big,  kind  father  had  said 
good  night — in  some  ways,  at  moments,  he  seemed 
almost  close  to  her ;  at  other  moments,  especially  now, 
at  night,  in  the  solitude,  he  was  hopelessly  far  away, 
a  dim  figure  on  the  farther  shore  of  the  gulf  that  lies, 
bottomless,  between  every  two  human  souls — she 
locked  herself  in  her  little  room  and  sat,  very  still, 
with  drooping  face  and  wet  eyes,  by  the  open  window. 

The  big  Oriental  city  was  silent,  asleep,  except  for 
the  distant  sound  of  a  watchman  banging  his  gong  and 
shouting  musically  on  his  rounds.  The  spring  air,  soft, 
moistly  warm,  brought  to  her  nostrils  the  smell  of 
China;  and  brought  with  it,  queerly  disjointed,  haunt- 
like  memories  of  her  childhood  in  the  earlier  mis- 
sion house  that  had  stood  on  this  same  bit  of  ground. 
She  closed  her  eyes,  and  saw  her  mother  walking  in 
quiet  dignity  about  the  compound,  the  same  compound 
in  which  Luella  Brenty,  a  girl  of  hardly  more  than  her- 
own  present  age,  was,  in  1900,  burned  at  the  stake. 
Down  there  where  the  ghostly  tablet  stood,  by  the 
chapel  steps. 

She  shivered.  There  was  trouble  now.  They  were 
talking  about  it  among  themselves,  if  not  in  her  pres- 
ence. That  would  doubtless  explain  her  father's  pre- 
occupation. .  .  .  She  must  hurry  to  bed.  She  knew 
she  was  tired ;  and  it  wouldn't  do  to  be  late  for  break- 
fast. And  she  had  a  class  in  English  at  8 :45. 

But  instead  she  got  out  the  bottom  tray  of  her  trunk 
and  mournfully  staring  long  at  each,  went  through  her 
photographs.  She  had  been  a  nice  girl,  there  in  the 


94  HILLS  OF  HAN 

comfortable  American  town.  Here  she  seemed  less 
nice.  As  if,  in  some  way,  over  there  in  the  States,  her 
nature  had  changed  for  the  worse.  They  looked  at  her 
so.  They  were  not  friendly.  No,  not  that.  Yet  this 
was  home,  her  only  home.  The  other  had  seemed  to 
be  home,  but  it  was  now  a  dream  .  .  .  gone.  She 
could  never  again  pick  up  her  place  in  the  old  crowd. 
It  would  be  changing.  That,  she  thought,  in  the  brood- 
ing reverie  known  to  every  imaginative,  sensitive  boy 
and  girl,  was  the  sad  thing  about  life.  It  slipped  away 
from  you;  you  could  nowhere  put  your  feet  down 
solidly.  If,  another  year,  she  could  return,  the  crowd 
would  be  changed.  New  friendships  would  be  formed. 
The  boys  who  had  been  fond  of  her  would  now  be 
fond  of  others.  Some  of  the  girls  might  be  married. 
.  .  .  She  herself  was  changed.  A  man — an  older 
man,  who  had  been  married,  was,  in  a  way,  married 
at  the  time — had  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 
It  was  a  shock.  It  hurt  now.  She  couldn't  think  how 
it  had  happened,  how  it  had  ever  begun.  She  couldn't 
even  visualize  the  man,  now,  with  her  eyes  closed.  She 
couldn't  be  sure  even  that  she  liked  him.  He  was  a 
strange  being.  He  had  interested  her  by  startling  her. 
Romance  had  seized  them.  He  said  that.  He  said  it 
would  be  different  at  Shanghai.  It  was  different ;  very 
puzzling,  saddening.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to  what 
Mrs.  Boatwright  would  say  about  it,  if  she  knew.  Or 
Miss  Hemphill.  Any  of  them.  .  .  .  She  wondered 
what  her  father  would  say.  She  couldn't  tell  him.  It 


IN  T'AINAN  95 

had  to  be  secret.  There  were  things  in  life  that  had  to 
be ;  but  she  wondered  what  he  would  say. 

But  she  was,  with  herself,  here  in  her  solitude,  hon- 
est about  it.  It  had  happened.  She  didn't  blame  the 
man.  In  his  strange  way,  he  was  real.  He  had  meant 
it.  She  had  read  his  letter  over  and  over,  on  the 
steamer,  and  here  in  T'ainan.  It  was  moving,  exciting 
to  her,  that  odd  letter.  And  he  had  gone  without  a  fur- 
ther word  because  he  felt  it  to  be  the  best  way.  She 
was  sure  of  that.  .  .  .  She  didn't  blame  herself, 
though  it  hurt.  No,  she  couldn't  blame  him.  Yet  it 
was  now,  as  it  had  been  at  the  time,  a  sort  of  blinding, 
almost  an  unnerving  shock.  .  .  .  Probably  they 
would  never  meet  again.  It  was  a  large  world,  after 
all ;  you  couldn't  go  back  and  pick  up  dropped  threads. 
But  if  they  should  meet,  by  some  queer  chance,  what 
would  they  do,  what  could  they  say?  For  he  lingered 
vividly  with  her;  his  rough  blunt  phrases  came  up,  at 
lonely  moments,  in  her  mind.  He  had  stirred  and, 
queerly,  bewilderingly,  humbled  her.  .  .  .  She  won- 
dered, all  nerves,  what  his  wife  was  like.  How  she 
looked. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  change  in  her  that  these  severe 
women  noticed.  Perhaps  her  inner  life  lay  open  to 
their  experienced  eyes.  She  could  do  nothing  about  it, 
just  set  her  teeth  and  live  through  somehow.  .  .  . 
Though  it  couldn't  be  wholly  that,  because  she  had 
worn  the  clothes  they  didn't  like  before  it  happened, 
and  had  danced,  and  played  like  a  child.  And  they 


96  HILLS  OF  HAN 

didn't  seem  to  care  much  for  her  drawing;  though 
Miss  Hemphill  had,  she  knew,  suggested  to  Mr.  Boat- 
wright  that  he  let  her  try  teaching  a  small  class  of  the 
Chinese  girls.  .  .  .  No,  it  wasn't  that.  It  must, 
then,  be  something  in  her  nature. 

She  had  read,  back  home — or  in  the  States — in  a 
woman's  magazine,  that  every  woman  has  two  men  in 
her  life,  the  one  she  loves,  or  who  has  stirred  her,  and 
the  one  she  marries.  The  girls,  in  some  excitement, 
had  discussed  it.  There  had  been  confidences. 

She  might  marry.  It  was  possible.  And  even  now 
she  saw  clearly  enough,  as  every  girl  sees  when  life 
presses,  that  marriage  might,  at  any  moment,  present 
itself  as  a  way  out.  The  thought  was  not  stimulating. 
The  pictures  it  raised  lacked  the  glowing  color  of  her 
younger  and  more  romantic  dreams.  .  .  .  That 
mining  engineer  was  writing  her,  from  Korea.  His 
name  was  Apgar,  Harold  B.  Apgar;  he  was  stocky, 
strong,  with  an  attractive  square  face  and  quiet  gray 
eyes.  She  liked  him.  But  his  letters  were  going  to  be 
hard  to  answer. 

The  soft  air  that  fanned  her  softer  cheek  brought 
utter  melancholy.  She  felt,  as  only  the  young  can  feel, 
that  her  life,  with  her  merry  youth,  was  over.  Grim 
doors  had  closed  on  it.  Joy  lay  behind  those  doors. 
Ahead  lay  duties,  discipline,  the  somber  routine  of 
womanhood. 

She  shivered  and  stirred.  This  brooding  wouldn't  do. 

She  got  out  a  pad  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  sitting 
there  in  the  dim  light,  sketched  with  deft  fingers  the 


IN  T'AINAN  97 

roofs  and  trees  of  T'ainan,  as  they  appeared  in  the 
moonlight  of  spring,  with  a  great  faint  gate  tower 
bulking  high  above  a  battlemented  wall.  Until  far  into 
the  morning  she  drew,  forgetful  of  the  hours,  finding 
a  degree  of  melancholy  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  the 
expressive  faculty  that  had  become  second  nature  to 
her. 

She  slept,  then,  like  a  child,  until  mid-forenoon.  It 
was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  when  she  hurried,  ready  to 
smile  quickly  to  cover  her  confusion,  down  to  the  din- 
ing-room. The  breakfast  things  had  been  cleared  away 
more  than  two  hours  earlier.  The  table  boy  (so  said 
the  cook)  had  gone  to  market.  She  ate,  rather  shame- 
faced, a  little  bread  and  butter  (she  was  finding  it  dif- 
ficult to  get  used  to  this  tinned  butter  from  New  Zea- 
land). 

In  the  parlor  Mrs.  Boatwright  sat  at  her  desk.  She 
heard  Betty  at  the  door,  lifted  her  head  for  a  cool 
bow,  then  resumed  her  work.  Not  a  word  did  she 
speak  or  invite.  There  was  an  apology  trembling  on 
the  tip  of  Betty's  tongue,  but  she  had  to  hold  it  back 
and  turn  away. 

3 

The  day  after  the  suicide  of  Li  Hsien  rumors  began 
to  drift  into  the  compound.  News  travels  swiftly  in 
China.  The  table  "boy"  (a  man  of  fifty-odd)  brought 
interesting  bits  from  the  market,  always  a  center  for 
gossip  of  the  city  and  the  mid-provincial  region  about 
it.  The  old  gate-keeper,  Sun  Shao-i,  picked  up  much 


98  HILLS  OF  HAN 

of  the  roadside  talk.  And  the  several  other  men  help- 
ers about  the  compound  each  contributed  his  bit.  The 
act  of  the  fanatical  student  had,  at  the  start,  as  Doane 
anticipated,  an  electrical  effect  on  public  sentiment. 
Suicide  is  by  no  means  generally  regarded  in  China  as 
a  sign  of  failure.  It  is  employed,  at  times  of  great 
stress,  as  a  form  of  deliberate  protest;  and  is  then 
taken  as  heroism. 

So  reports  came  that  the  always  existent  hatred  of 
foreigners  was  rising,  and  might  get  out  of  control. 
A  French  priest  was  murdered  on  the  Kalgan  high- 
way, after  protracted  torture  during  which  his  eyes 
and  tongue  were  fed  to  village  dogs.  This,  doubtless, 
as  retaliation  for  similar  practises  commonly  attributed 
to  the  white  missionaries.  The  fact  that  the  local  Shen 
magistrate  promptly  caught  and  beheaded  a  few  of  the 
ringleaders  appeared  to  have  small  deterrent  effect  on 
public  feeling. 

Detachments  of  strange-appearing  soldiers,  wearing 
curious  insignia,  were  marching  into  the  province  over 
the  Western  Mountains.  A  native  worker  at  one  of 
the  mission  outposts  wrote  that  they  broke  into  his 
compound  and  robbed  him  of  food,  but  made  little 
further  trouble. 

Reports  bearing  on  the  activities  of  the  new  Great 
Eye  Society — already  known  along  the  wayside  as 
"The  Lookers" — were  coming  in  daily.  The  Lookers 
were  initiating  many  young  men  into  their  strange 
magic,  which  appeared  to  differ  from  the  incantations 
of  the  Boxers  of  1900  more  in  detail  than  in  spirit. 


IN  T'AINAN  99 

And  in  the  western,  villages  this  element  was  welcom- 
ing the  new  soldiers. 

Here  in  T'ainan  disorder  was  increasing.  An  old 
native,  helper  of  Dr.  Cassin  in  the  dispensary,  was 
mobbed  on  the  street  and  given  a  beating  during  which 
his  arm  was  broken.  He  managed  to  walk  to  the  com- 
pound, and  was  now  about  with  the  arm  in  a  sling, 
working  quietly  as  usual.  But  it  was  evident  that  na- 
tive Christians  must,  as  usual  in  times  of  trouble,  suf- 
fer for  their  faith. 

On  the  following  afternoon  the  tao-tai  called,  in 
state,  with  bearers,  runners,  soldiers  and  secretaries. 
The  main  courtyard  of  the  compound  was  filled  with 
the  richly  colored  chairs  and  the  silks  and  satins  and 
plumed  ceremonial  hats  of  his  entourage.  For  more 
than  an  hour  he  was  closeted  with  Griggsby  Doane, 
while  the  Chinese  schoolgirls,  very  demure,  stole  glances 
from  curtained  windows  at  the  beautiful  young  men 
in  the  courtyard. 

By  this  impressive  visit,  and  by  his  long  stay,  Chang 
Chih  Ting  clearly  meant  to  impress  on  the  whole  city 
his  friendship  for  these  foreign  devils.  For  the  whole 
city  would  know  of  it  within  an  hour;  all  middle  Hansi 
would  know  by  nightfall. 

He  brought  disturbing  news.  It  had  been  obvious 
to  Doane  that  the  menacing  new  society  could  hardly 
spread  and  thrive  without  some  sort  of  secret  official 
backing.  He  was  inclined  to  trust  Chang.  He  believed, 
after  days  of  balancing  the  subtle  pros  and  cons  in  his 
mind,  that  Pao  Ting  Chuan  would  keep  order.  And 


100  HILLS  OF  HAN 

he  knew  that  the  official  who  was  responsible  for  the 
province — as  Pao  virtually  was — could  keep  order  if 
he  chose. 

Chang,  always  naively  open  with  Doane,  supported 
him  in  this  view.  But  it  was  strongly  rumored  at  the 
tao-tai's  yamen  that  the  treasurer,  Kang  Hsu,  old  as 
he  was,  weakened  by  opium,  for  the  past  two  or  three 
years  an  inconsiderable  figure  in  the  province,  had 
lately  been  in  correspondence  with  the  Western  sol- 
diers. And  officers  from  his  yamen  had  been  recog- 
nized as  among  the  drill  masters  of  the  Looker  bands. 
Chang  had  reported  these  proceedings  to  His  Excel- 
lency, he  said  ("His  Excellency,"  during  this  period, 
meant  always  Pao,  though  Kang  Hsu,  as  treasurer, 
ranked  him)  and  had  been  graciously  thanked.  It  was 
also  said  that  Kang  had  cured  himself  of  opium  smok- 
ing by  locking  himself  in  a  room  and  throwing  pipe, 
rods,  lamp  and  all  his  supply  of  the  drug  out  of  a  win- 
dow. For  two  weeks  he  had  suffered  painfully,  and 
had  nearly  died  of  a  diarrhea;  but  now  had  recovered 
and  was  even  gaining  in  weight,  though  still  a  skeleton. 

Doane  caught  himself  shaking  his  head,  with  Chang, 
over  this  remarkable  self-cure.  It  would  apparently 
be  better  for  the  whites  were  Kang  to  resume  his  evil 
ways.  It  was  clear  to  these  deeply  experienced  men 
that  Kang's  motives  would  be  mixed.  Doubtless  he  had 
been  stirred  to  jealousy  by  Pao.  It  seemed  unlikely 
that  he,  or  any  prominent  mandarin,  could  afford  to 
run  the  great  risks  involved  in  setting  the  province 
afire  so  soon  after  1900.  Perhaps  he  knew  a  way  to 


IN  T'AINAN  101 

lay  the  fresh  troubles  at  Pao's  gate.  Or  perhaps  he 
had  come  to  believe,  with  his  befuddled  old  brain,  in 
the  Looker  incantations.  Only  seven  years  earlier  the 
belief  of  ruling  Manchus  in  Boxer  magic  had  led  to  the 
siege  of  the  legations  and  something  near  the  ruin  of 
China.  Come  to  think  of  it,  Kang,  unlike  Pao  and 
Chang,  was  a  Manchu. 

Chang  also  brought  with  him  a  copy  of  the  Memo- 
rial left  by  Li  Hsien,  which  it  appeared  was  being 
widely  circulated  in  the  province.  The  document  gave 
an  interesting  picture  of  the  young  man's  complicated 
mind.  His  death  had  been  theatrical  and,  in  manner, 
Western,  modern.  Suicides  of  protest  were  tradition- 
ally managed  in  private.  But  the  memorial  was  ut- 
terly Chinese,  written  with  all  the  customary  indirec- 
tion, dwelling  on  his  devotion  to  his  parents  and  his 
native  land,  as  on  his  own  worthlessness ;  quoting  apt 
phrases  from  Confucius,  Mencius  and  Tseng  Tzu; 
quite,  indeed,  in  the  best  traditional  manner.  And  he 
left  a  letter  to  his  elder  brother,  couched  in  language 
humble  and  tender,  giving  exact  directions  for  his  fu- 
neral, down  to  the  arrangement  of  his  clothing  and 
the  precise  amount  to  be  paid  to  the  Taoist  priest,  to- 
gether with  instructions  as  to  the  disposition  of  his 
small  personal  estate.  Doane  pointed  out  that  these 
documents  were  designed  to  impress  on  the  gentry  his 
loyal  conformity  to  ancient  tradition,  while  his  mo- 
tives were  revolutionary  and  his  final  act  was  designed 
to  excite  the  mob  at  the  fair  and  folk  of  their  class 
throughout  the  province.  Chang  believed  he  had  schol- 


102  HILLS  OF  HAN 

arly  help  in  preparing  the  documents.  And  both  men 
felt  it  of  sober  significance  that  the  memorial  was  ad- 
dressed to  "His  Excellency,  Kang  Hsu,  Provincial 
Treasurer." 

That  Li  Hsien's  inflammatory  denunciation  of  "the 
foreign  engineer  at  Ping  Yang"  had  an  almost  immedi- 
ate effect  was  indicated  by  the  news  from  that  village 
at  the  railhead.  M.  Pourmont  wrote,  in  French,  that  an 
Australian  stake-boy  had  been  shot  through  the  lungs 
while  helping  an  instrument  man  in  the  hills.  He  was 
alive,  but  barely  so,  at  the  time  of  writing.  As  a  re- 
sult of  this  and  certain  lesser  difficulties,  M.  Pourmont 
was  calling  in  his  engineers  and  mine  employees,  and 
putting  them  to  work  improvising  a  fort  about  his 
compound,  and  had  telegraphed  Peking  for  a  large 
shipment  of  tinned  food.  He  added  that  there  would 
be  plenty  of  room  in  case  Doane  later  should  decide 
to  gather  in  his  outpost  workers  and  fall  back  toward 
the  railroad. 

Doane  translated  this  letter  into  Chinese  for  Chang's 
benefit. 

"Has  he  firearms?"  asked  the  tao-tai. 

Doane  inclined  his  head.  "More  than  the  treaty  per- 
mits," he  replied.  "He  told  me  last  winter  that  he 
thought  it  necessary." 

"It  is  as  well,"  said  Chang.  "Though  it  is  not  nec- 
essary for  you  to  leave  yet.  To  do  that  would  be  to 
invite  misunderstanding." 

"It  would  invite  attack,"  said  Doane. 

It  was  on  the  morning  after  Chang's  call  that  the 


IN  T'AINAN  103 

telegram  came  from  Jen  Ling  Pu.  Doane  was  crossing 
the  courtyard  when  he  heard  voices  in  the  gate  house ; 
then  Sun  Shao-i  came  down  the  steps  and  gave  him 
the  message.  He  at  once  sent  a  chit  to  Pao,  writing  it 
in  pencil  against  a  wall;  then  ordered  a  cart  brought 
around.  Within  an  hour  the  boy  was  back.  Pao  had 
written  on  the  margin  of  the  note :  "Will  see  you  im- 
mediately." 

For  once  the  great  mandarin  did  not  keep  him  wait- 
ing. The  two  inner  gates  of  the  yamen  opened  for 
him  one  after  the  other,  and  his  cart  was  driven  across 
the  tiled  inner  court  to  the  yamen  porch.  It  was  an 
unheard-of  honor.  Plainly,  Pao,  like  the  lesser  Chang, 
purposed  standing  by  his  guns,  and  meant  that  the  city 
should  know.  By  way  of  emphasis,  Pao  himself,  tall, 
stately,  magnificent  in  his  richly  embroidered  robe,  the 
peacock  emblem  of  a  civil  mandarin  of  the  third-class 
embroidered  on  the  breast,  the  girdle  clasp  of  worked 
gold,  wearing  the  round  hat  of  office  crowned  with  a 
large  round  ruby — Pao,  deep  and  musical  of  voice,  met 
him  in  the  shadowy  porch  and  conducted  him  to  the 
reception  room.  Instantly  the  tea  appeared,  and  they 
could  talk. 

"Your  Excellency,"  said  Doane,  "a  Christian  worker 
in  So  T'ung,  one  Jen  Ling  Pu,  telegraphs  me  that 
strange  soldiers,  helped  by  members  of  the  Great  Eye 
Society,  last  night  attacked  his  compound.  They  have 
burned  the  gate  house,  but  have  no  firearms.  At  eight 
this  morning,  with  the  aid  of  the  engineer  for  the  Ho 
Shan  Company  in  that  region,  and  with  only  two  re- 


104  HILLS  OF  HAN 

volvers,  he  was  defending  the  compound.  I  am  going 
there.  I  will  leave  this  noon." 

"I  hear  your  alarming  words  with  profound  regret," 
Pao's  deep  voice  rolled  about  the  large  high  room. 
"My  people  are  suffering  under  an  excitement  which 
causes  them  to  forget  their  responsibility  as  neighbors 
and  their  duty  to  their  fellow  men.  I  will  send  soldiers 
with  you." 

"Soldiers  should  be  sent,  Your  Excellency,  and  at 
once.  Well-armed  men.  But  I  shall  not  wait." 

"You  are  not  going  alone?  And  not  in  your  usual 
manner,  on  foot?" 

"Yes,  Your  Excellency." 

"But  that  may  be  unsafe." 

"My  safety  is  of  little  consequence." 

"It  is  of  great  consequence  to  me." 

"For  that  I  thank  you.  But  it  is  to  So  Tung  a 
hundred  and  eighty  li.  The  best  mules  or  horses  will 
need  two  days.  I  can  walk  there  in  less  than  one  day. 
I  have  walked  there  in  twenty  hours." 

"You  are  a  man  of  courage.  I  will  order  the  soldiers 
to  start  by  noon." 

Back  at  the  compound,  Doane  assembled  his  staff 
in  one  of  the  schoolrooms.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boatwright 
were  there,  Miss  Hemphill  and  Dr.  Cassin.  He  laid 
the  telegram  before  them,  and  repeated  his  conversa- 
tion with  the  provincial  judge. 

They  listened  soberly.  For  a  brief  time  M«  one 
spoke.  Then  Mrs.  Boatwright  asked,  bluntly : 

"You  are  sure  you  ought  to  go?" 


IN  T'AINAN  105 

Doane  inclined  his  head. 

"If  things  are  as  bad  as  this,  how  about  our  safety 
here?" 

"You  will  be  protected.  Both  Pao  and  Chang  will 
see  to  that.  And  in  case  of  serious  danger — something 
unforeseen,  you  must  demand  an  escort  to  Ping  Yang. 
You  will  be  safe  there  with  Monsieur  Pourmont." 

"How  about  your  own  safety?" 

"I  have  put  the  responsibility  squarely  on  Pao's 
shoulders.  He  knows  what  I  am  going  to  do.  He  is 
sending  soldiers  after  me.  He  will  undoubtedly  tele- 
graph ahead;  he'll  have  to  do  that." 


Betty  was  in  his  study,  standing  by  the  window. 
She  turned  quickly  when  he  came  in.  He  closed  the 
door,  and  affecting  a  casual  manner  passed  her  with  a 
smile  and  went  into  the  bedroom  for  the  light  bag 
with  a  shoulder  strap,  the  blanket  roll  and  the  inge- 
nious light  folding  cot  that  he  always  carried  on  these 
expeditions  if  there  was  likelihood  of  his  being  caught 
overnight  at  native  inns.  He  put  on  his  walking  boots 
and  leggings,  picked  up  his  thin  raincoat  and  the  heavy 
stick  that  was  his  only  weapon,  and  returned  to  the 
study. 

He  felt  Betty's  eyes  on  him,  and  tried  to  speak  in  an 
•ffhand  manner. 

"I'm  off  to  So  T'ung,  Betty.  Be  back  within  two  or 
three  days." 


106  HILLS  OF  HAN 

She  came  over,  slowly,  hesitating,  and  fingered  the 
blanket  roll. 

"Will  there  be  danger  at  So  T'ung,  Dad  ?"  she  asked 
gently. 

"Very  little,  I  think." 

He  saw  that  neither  his  words  nor  his  manner  an- 
swered the  questions  in  her  hind.  Patting  her  shoulder, 
he  added : 

"Kiss  me  good-by,  child.  You've  been  listening  to 
the  chatter  of  the  compound.  The  worst  place  for  gos- 
sip in  the  world." 

But  she  laid  a  light  finger  on  the  court-plaster  that 
covered  a  cut  on  his  cheek-bone. 

"You  never  said  a  word  about  that,  Dad.  It  was  the 
riot  at  the  fair.  I  know.  You  had  to  fight  with  them. 
And  Li  Hsien  killed  himself." 

"But  His  Excellency  put  down  the  trouble  at  once. 
That  is  over." 

She  sank  slowly  into  the  swivel  chair  before  the 
desk;  dropped  her  cheek  on  her  hand;  said,  in  a  low 
uneven  voice : 

"No  one  talks  to  me    ...    tells  me    .    .    ." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  standing  motionless.  His 
eyes  filled.  Then,  deliberately,  he  put  his  pack  aside, 
and  seated  himself  at  the  other  side  of  the  desk. 

She  looked  up,  with  a  wistful  smile. 

"I'm  not  afraid,  Dad." 

"You  wouldn't  be,"  said  he  gravely. 

"No.   But  there  is  trouble,  of  course." 

"Yes.   There  is  trouble." 


IN  T'AINAN  107 

"Do  you  think  it  will  be  as — as  bad  as — nineteen 
hundred?" 

"No  .  .  .  no,  I'm  sure  it  won't.  The  officials 
simply  can't  afford  to  let  that  awful  thing  happen 
again." 

"It  would  be  ...  well,  discouraging,"  said  she 
thoughtfully.  "Wouldn't  it  ?  To  have  all  your  work 
undone  again." 

He  found  himself  startled  by  her  impersonal  man- 
ner. He  saw  her,  abruptly  then,  as  a  mature  being. 
He  didn't  know  how  to  talk  to  her.  This  thoughtful 
young  woman  was,  curiously,  a  stranger.  .  .  .  And 
this  was  the  first  moment  in  which  it  had  occurred  to 
him  that  she  might  already  have  had  beginning  adult 
experience.  She  was  an  individual;  had  a  life  of  her 
own  to  manage.  There  would  have  been  men.  She 
was  old  enough  to  have  thought  about  marriage,  even. 
It  seemed  incredible.  .  .  .  He  sighed. 

"You're  worried  about  me,"  she  said. 

"I  shouldn't  have  brought  you  out  here,  dear." 

"I  don't  fit  in." 

"It  is  a  great  change  for  you." 

"I    ...    I'm  no  good." 

"Betty,  dear — that  is  not  true.  I  can't  let  you  say 
that,  or  think  it." 

"But  it's  the  truth.  I'm  no  good.  I've  tried.  I 
have,  Dad.  You  know,  to  put  everything  behind  me 
and  make  myself  take  hold.  .  .  .  And  then  I  draw 
half  the  night,  and  miss  my  classes  in  the  morning.  It 
seems  to  go  against  my  nature,  some  way.  No  mat- 


108  HILLS  OF  HAN 

ter  how  hard  I  try,  it  doesn't  work.  The  worst  of  it 
is,  in  my  heart  I  know  it  isn't  going  to  work." 

"I  shouldn't  have  brought  you  out  here." 

"But  you  couldn't  help  that,  Dad." 

"It  did  seem  so.  ...  I'm  planning  now  t»  send 
you  back  as  soon  as  we  can  manage  it." 

"But,  Dad    ...    the  expense    .    .    . !" 

"I  know.  I  am  thinking  about  that.  There  will 
surely  be  a  way  to  manage  it,  a  little  later.  I  mean  t« 
find  a  way." 

"But  I  can't  go  back  to  Uncle  Frank's." 

"I  must  work  it  out  so  that  it  won't  be  a  burden  t» 
him." 

"You  mean    .    .    .    pay  board?" 

"Yes." 

"But  think,  Dad !    I've  cost  you  so  much  already !" 

"I  am  glad  you  have,  dear.  I  think  I've  needed 
that.  And  I  want  you  to  go  back  to  the  Art  League. 
You  have  a  real  talent.  We  must  make  the  most  of  it." 

Betty's  gaze  strayed  out  the  window.  Her  father 
was  a  dear  man.  She  hadn't  dreamed  he  could  see 
into  her  problems  like  this.  She  was  afraid  she  might 
cry,  so  she  spoke  quickly. 

"But  that  means  making  me  still  more  a  burden!" 

"It  is  the  sort  of  burden  I  would  love,  Betty.  But 
don't  misunderstand  me — I  can't  do  all  this  novr." 

"Oh,  I  know !" 

"You  may  have  to  be  patient  for  a  time.  Tell  me, 
dear,  first  though  ...  is  it  what  you  want  most?" 

"Oh    .    .    .    why    .    .    ." 


IN  T'AINAN  109 

"Answer  me  if  you  can.  If  you  know  what  you 
want  most." 

"I  wonder  if  I  do  know.  It's  when  I  try  to  think 
that  out  clearly  that  it  seems  to  me  I'm  no  good." 

"I  recognize,  of  course,  that  you  are  reaching  the 
age  when  many  girls  think  of  marrying." 

"I*.    .    .    oh   .    .    ." 

"I  don't  want  to  intrude  into  your  intimate  thoughts, 
dear.  But  in  so  far  as  we  can  plan  together  ...  it 
may  help  if  .  .  ." 

She  spoke  with  a  touch  of  reserve  that  might  have 
been,  probably  was,  shyness. 

"There  have  been  men,  of  course,  who — well, 
wanted  to  marry  me.  This  last  year.  There  was 
one  in  New  York.  He  used  to  come  out  and  take  me 
riding  in  his  automobile.  I — I  always  made  some  of 
the  other  girls  come  with  us." 

Doane  found  it  impossible  to  visualize  this  picture. 
When  he  was  last  in  the  States  there  were  no  auto- 
mobiles on  the  streets.  It  suggested  "a  condition  of 
which  he  knew  literally  nothing,  a  wholly  new  set  of 
influences  in  the  life  of  young  people.  The  thought 
was  alarming;  he  had  to  close  his  eyes  on  it  for  a  mo- 
ment. Much  as  his  daughter  had  seemed  like  a  visitor 
from  another  planet,  she  had  never  seemed  so  far  off 
as  now.  And  he  fell  to  thinking,  along  with  this  new 
picture,  of  the  terribly  hard  struggle  they  had  had  out 
here,  since  1900,  in  rebuilding  the  mission  organiza- 
tion, in  training  new  workers  and  creating  a  new 
morale.  He  felt  tired.  His  brain  was  tired.  It 


110  HILLS  OF  HAN 

would  help  to  get  out  on  the  road  again,  swinging 
gradually  into  the  rhythm  of  his  forty-inch  stride. 
Once  more  he  would  walk  himself  off,  even  as  he  has- 
tened on  an  errand  of  rescue. 

Betty  was  speaking  again. 

"And  there's  one  now.  He's  in  Korea,  a  mining  en- 
gineer. He's  awfully  nice.  But  I — I  don't  think  I 
could  marry  him." 

"Do  you  love  him,  Betty?" 

"N — no.  No,  I  don't.  Though  I've  wondered, 
sometimes,  about  these  things.  .  .  ."  The  person 
she  was  wondering  about,  as  she  said  this,  was  Jona- 
than Bradiey.  Suddenly,  with  her  mind's  eye,  she 
saw  this  clearly.  And  it  was  startling.  She  couldn't 
so  much  as  mention  his  name;  certainly  not  to  her 
father,  kind  and  human  as  he  seemed.  But  she  would 
never  hear  from  him  again;  not  now.  If  he  could  live 
through  those  first  few  weeks  without  so  much  as 
writing,  he  could  let  the  years  go.  That  would  have 
been  the  test  for  her  sort  of  nature,  and  she  could 
understand  no  other  sort. 

She  compressed  her  lips.  She  didn't  know  that  her 
face  showed  something  of  the  trouble  in  her  mind. 
She  spoke,  bravely,  with  an  abruptness  that  surprised 
herself  a  little,  as  it  surprised  him. 

"No,  Dad,  I  shan't  marry.  Not  for  years,  if  ever. 
I'd  rather  work.  I'd  rather  work  hard,  if  only  I  could 
fit  in  somewhere." 

"I'm  seeing  it  a  little  more  clearly,  Betty."  He 
arose.  "On  the  way  out  I'll  tell  Mrs.  Boatwright  and 


IN  T'AINAN  111 

Miss  Hemphill  both  that  I  don't  want  you  to  do  any 
more  work  about  the  compound.  .  .  .  No,  dear, 
please!  Let  me  finish!  .  .  .  When  you're  a  few 
years  older,  you'll  learn  as  I  have  learned,  that  the  im- 
portant thing  is  to  find  your  own  work,  and  find  it 
early.  So  many  lives  take  the  wrong  direction, 
through  mistaken  judgment,  or  a  mistaken  sense  of 
duty.  And  nothing — nothing — can  so  mislead  us  as 
a  sense  of  duty." 

He  said  this  with  an  emphasis  that  puzzled  Betty. 

"The  thing  for  you,"  he  went  on,  "is  to  draw.  And 
dream.  The  dreaming  will  work  out  in  more  drawing, 
I  imagine.  For  you  have  the  nature  of  the  artist. 
Your  mother  had  it.  You  are  like  her,  with  something 
of  my  energy  added.  Don't  let  the  atmosphere  of  the 
compound  pull  you  down.  It  mustn't  do  that.  Live 
within  yourself.  Let  your  energy  go  into  honest  ex- 
pression of  yourself.  You  see  what  I'm  getting  at — 
be  yourself.  Don't  try  to  be  some  one  else.  .  .  . 
You  happen  to  be  here  in  an  interesting  time.  There's 
a  possibility  that  the  drawings  you  could  make  out 
here,  now,  would  have  a  value  later  on.  So  try  to 
make  a  record  of  your  life  here  with  your  pencil.  And 
don't  be  afraid  of  happiness,  dear."  He  pointed  to  a 
row  of  jonquils  in  a  window-box.  "Happiness  is  as 
great  a  contribution  to  life  as  duty.  Think  how  those 
flowers  contribute!  And  remember  that  you  are  like 
them  to  me." 

She  clung  to  him,  in  impulsive  affection,  as  she 
kissed  him  good-by.  And  it  wasn't  until  late  that 


112  HILLS  OF  HAN 

night,  as  she  lay  in  her  white  bed,  such  a  glow  did  he 
leave  in  her  warm  little  heart,  that  the  odd  nature  of 
his  talk  caught  her  attention.  She  had  never,  never, 
heard  him  say  such  things.  It  was  as  if  he,  her  great 
strong  dad,  were  himself  starved  for  happiness.  As  if 
he  wanted  her  to  have  all  the  rich  beauty  of  life  that 
had  passed  him  grimly  by. 

She  fell  to  wondering,  sleepily,  what  he  meant  by 
finding  a  way  to  get  the  money.  There  was  no  way. 
Though  it  was  dear  of  him  even  to  think  of  it. 

She  fell  asleep  then. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CATASTROPHE 

1 

DOANE  left  the  compound  a  little  before  noon, 
and  arrived  at  So  T'ung  at  six  the  following 
morning.  The  distance,  a  hundred  and  eighty  li,  was 
just  short  of  sixty-five  English  miles.  The  road  was 
little  more  than  a  footpath,  so  narrow  that  in  the 
mountains,  where  the  grinding  of  ages  of  traffic  and 
the  drainage  from  eroded  slopes  had  long  ago  worn 
it  down  into  a  series  of  deep,  narrow  canyons,  the 
camel  trains,  with  their  wide  panniers,  always  found 
passing  a  matter  of  difficulty  and  confusion.  Here  it 
skirted  a  precipice,  or  twisted  up  and  up  to  surmount 
the  Pass  of  the  Flighting  Geese,  just  west  of  the  sa- 
cred mountain ;  there  it  wandered  along  the  lower  hill- 
sides above  a  spring  torrent  that  would  be,  a  few 
months  later,  a  trickling  rivulet.  His  gait  averaged, 
over  all  conditions  of  road  and  of  gradient,  about  five 
miles  an  hour.  He  followed,  on  this  occasion,  the  prin- 
ciple of  walking  an  hour,  then  resting  fifteen  minutes. 
And  toward  midnight  he  set  up  his  cot  by  the  roadside, 
in  the  shelter  of  a  tree  by  a  memorial  arch,  and  gave 
himself  two  hours  of  sleep. 

113 


114  HILLS  OF  HAN 

The  little  hill  city  of  So  T'ung  was  awake  and  astir, 
with  gates  open  and  traffic  already  flowing  forth. 
There  were  no  signs  of  disorder.  But  Doane  noted 
that  the  anti-foreign  mutterings  and  sneers  along  the 
roadside  (to  which  he  had  grown  accustomed  twenty 
years  earlier)  were  louder  and  more  frequent  than 
common.  For  himself  he  had  not  the  slightest  fear. 
His  great  height,  his  enormous  strength,  his  command- 
ing eye,  had  always,  except  on  the  one  recent  occa- 
sion of  the  riot  at  the  T'ainan  fair,  been  enough  to  cow 
any  native  who  was  near  enough  to  do  him  injury. 
And  added  to  this  moral  and  physical  strength  he  had 
lately  felt  a  somewhat  surprising  recklessness.  He  felt 
this  now.  He  didn't  care  what  happened,  so  long  as  he 
might  be  busy  in  the  thick  of  it.  His  personal  safety 
took  on  importance  only  when  he  kept  Betty  in  mind. 
He  must  save  himself  to  provide  for  her.  And,  of 
course,  in  the  absence  of  any  other  strong  personality, 
the  mission  workers  needed  him ;  they  had  no  one  else, 
just  now,  on  whom  to  lean.  And  then  there  were  the 
hundreds  of  native  Christians;  they  needed  him,  for 
they  would  be  slaughtered  first  .  .  .  if  it  should 
come  to  that.  They  would  be  loyal,  and  would  die,  at 
the  last,  for  their  faith. 

During  the  long  hours  of  walking  through  the  still 
mountain  night,  his  thoughts  ranged  far.  He  consid- 
ered talking  over  his  problems  with  M.  Pourmont. 
There  should  be  work  for  a  strong,  well-trained  man 
somewhere  in  the  railroad  development  that  was  going 
on  all  over  the  yellow  kingdom.  Preferably  in  some 


CATASTROPHE  115 

other  region,  where  he  wouldn't  be  known.  Starting 
fresh,  that  was  the  thing ! 

Over  and  over  the  rather  blank  thought  came 
around,  that  a  man  has  no  right  to  bring  into  the 
world  a  child  for  whom  he  can  not  properly,  fully,  care. 
And  it  came  down  to  money,  to  some  money;  not  as 
wealth,  but  as  the  one  usable  medium  of  human  ex- 
change. A  little  of  it,  honestly  earned,  meant  that  a 
man  was  productive,  was  paying  his  way.  A  saying 
of  Emerson's  shot  in  among  his  racing  thoughts — 
something  about  clergymen  always  demanding  a  han- 
dicap. It  was  wrong,  he  felt.  It  was — he  went  as  far 
as  this,  toward  dawn — parasitic.  A  man,  to  live 
soundly,  healthily,  must  shoulder  his  way  among  his 
fellows,  -prove  himself  squarely. 

And  he  dwelt  for  hours  at  a  time  on  the  ethical 
basis  of  all  this  missionary  activity.  It  was  what  he 
came  around  to  all  night.  There  was  an  assumption 
— it  was,  really,  the  assumption  on  which  his  present 
life  was  based — that  the  so-called  Christian  civiliza- 
tion, Western  Europe  and  America — owed  its  superi- 
ority to  what  he  thought  of  as  the  Christian  conscious- 
ness. That  superiority  was  always  implied.  It  was 
the  motive  power  back  of  this  persistent  proselytizing. 
But  to-night,  as  increasingly  of  late  years,  he  found 
himself  whittling  away  the  implications  of  a  spiritual 
and  even  ethical  quality  in  that  superiority  of  the 
White  over  the  Yellow.  More  and  more  clearly  it 
seemed  to  come  down  to  the  physical.  It  was  the 
amazing  discoveries  in  what  men  call  modern  science, 


116  HILLS  OF  HAN 

and  the  wide  application  in  industry  of  these  discov- 
eries, that  made  much  of  the  difference.  Then  there 
were  the  accidents  of  climate  and  soil  and  of  certain 
happy  mixtures  of  blood  through  conquests  .  .  . 
these  things  made  a  people  great  or  weak.  And  lesser 
accidents,  such  as  a  simple  alphabet,  making  it  easy 
and  cheap  to  print  ideas ;  the  Chinese  alphabet  and  the 
lack  of  easy  transportation  had  held  China  back,  he 
believed.  .  .  .  Back  of  all  these  matters  lay,  of 
course,  a  more  powerful  determinant;  the  genius  that 
might  be  waxing  or  waning  in  a  people.  The  genius 
of  America  was  waxing,  clearly;  and  the  genius  of 
China  had  been  waning  for  six  hundred  years.  But 
in  her  turn,  China  had  waxed,  as  had  Rome,  and 
Greece,  and  Egypt.  None  of  these  had  known  the 
Christian  consciousness,  yet  each  had  run  her  course. 
And  Greece  and  Rome,  without  it,  had  risen  high. 
Rome,  indeed,  whatever  the  reason,  had  begun  to  wane 
from  the  rery  dawn  of  Christianity;  and  had  finally 
succumbed,  not  to  that,  but  to  barbarians  who  had  in 
them  crude  physical  health  and  enterprise. 

The  more  deeply  he  pondered,  the  more  was  he  in- 
clined to  question  the  importance  of  Christianity  in 
the  Western  scheme.  For  Western  civilization,  to  his 
burning  eyes,  walking  at  night,  alone,  over  the  hills  of 
ancient  Hansi,  looked  of  a  profoundly  materialistic 
nature.  You  felt  that,  out  here,  where  oil  and  cig- 
arettes and  foreign-made  opium  and  merchandise  of 
all  sorts  were  pushing  in,  all  the  time,  about  and  be- 
yond the  missionaries.  And  with  bayonets  always 


CATASTROPHE  117 

bristling  in  the  background.  The  West  hadn't  the 
finely  great  gift  of  Greece  or  the  splendid  unity  of 
Rome.  Its  art  was  little  more  than  a  confusion  of 
copies,  a  library  of  historical  essays.  And  art  seemed, 
now,  important.  And  as  for  religion  .  .  .  Doane 
had  moments  of  real  bitterness,  that  night,  about  re- 
ligion. And  he  thought  around  and  around  a  circle. 
The  one  strongest,  best  organized  church  of  the  West 
— the  one  that  made  itself  felt  most  effectively  in 
China — seemed  to  him  not  only  opposed  to  the  scien- 
tific enterprise  that  was,  if  anything,  peculiarly  the 
genius  of  the  West,  but  insistent  on  superstitions  (for 
so  they  looked,  out  here)  beside  which  the  quiet  ration- 
alism of  the  Confucian  drift  seemed  very  reality.  And 
the  period  of  the  greatest  power  and  glory  of  that 
church  had  been,  to  all  European  civilization,  the  Dark 
Ages.  The  Reformation  and  the  modern  free  politi- 
cal spirit  appeared  to  be  cognates,  yet  the  evangelical 
churches  fought  science,  in  their  turn,  from  their  firm 
base  of  divine  revelation.  It  was  difficult,  to-night, 
to  see  the  miracles  and  mysteries  of  Christianity  as 
other  than  legendary  superstitions  handed  down  by 
primitive,  credulous  peoples.  It  was  difficult  to  see 
them  as  greatly  different  from  the  incantations  of  the 
Boxers  or  of  these  newer  Lookers. 

And  then,  of  all  those  great  peoples  that  had  waxed 
and  waned,  China  alone  remained.  .  .  .  There  was 
a  thought !  She  might  wax  again.  For  there  she  was, 
as  always.  Without  the  Christian  consciousness,  the 
Chinese,  of  all  the  great  peoples,  alone  had  endured. 


118  HILLS  OF  HAN 

A  fact  slightly  puzzling  to  Doane  was  that  he 
thought  all  this  under  a  driving  nervous  pressure.  Now 
and  then  his  mind  rushed  him,  got  a  little  out  of  con- 
trol. And  at  these  times  he  walked  too  fast. 


The  mission  station  was  situated  in  the  northern 
suburbs  of  So  T'ung-fu,  outside  the  wall.  Doane  went 
directly  there. 

The  mission  compound  lay  a  smoking  ruin.  Not  a 
building  of  the  five  or  six  that  had  stood  in  the  walled 
acre,  was  now  more  than  a  heap  of  bricks,  with  a 
bit  of  wall  or  a  chimney  standing.  The  compound 
wall  had  been  battered  down  at  a  number  of  points, 
apparently  with  a  heavy  timber  that  now  lay  outside 
one  of  the  breaches.  There  was  no  sign  of  life. 

He  walked  in  among  the  ruins.  They  were  still  too 
hot  for  close  examination.  But  he  found  the  body  of 
a  white  man  lying  in  an  open  space,  clad  in  flannel  shirt 
and  riding  breeches,  with  knee-high  laced  boots  of  the 
sort  commonly  worn  by  engineers.  The  face  was  un- 
recognizable. The  top  of  the  head,  too,  had  been 
beaten  in.  But  on  the  back  of  the  head  grew  curly  yel- 
low hair.  From  the  figure  evidently  a  young  man ;  one 
of  Pourmont's  adventurous  crew;  probably  one  of  the 
Australians  or  New  Zealanders.  A  revolver  lay  near 
the  outstretched  hand.  Doane  picked  it  up  and  exam- 
ined it.  Every  chamber  was  empty.  And  here  and 
there  along  the  path  were  empty  cartridges;  as  if  he 


CATASTROPHE  119 

had  retreated  stubbornly,  loading  and  firing  as  he  could. 
Not  far  off  lay  an  empty  cartridge  box.  That  would 
be  where  he  had  filled  for  the  last  time.  He  must  have 
sent  some  of  the  bullets  home;  but  the  attackers  had 
removed  their  dead.  Yes,  closer  scrutiny  discovered 
a  number  of  blood-soaked  areas  along  the  path. 

A  young  Chinese  joined  him,  announcing  himself  as 
a  helper  at  the  station.  Jen  Ling  Pu  had  sent  him  out 
•ver  the  rear  wall,  he  said,  with  the  telegram  to  Mr. 
Doane. 

Together  they  carried  the  body  of  the  white  man  to 
a  clear  space  near  the  wall  and  buried  him  in  a  shallow 
grave.  Doane  repeated  the  burial  service  in  brief 
form. 

The  boy,  whose  name  was  Wen,  explained  that  on 
his  return  from  the  telegraph  station  he  had  found  it 
impossible  to  get  into  the  compound,  as  it  was  then 
surrounded,  and  accordingly  hid  in  the  neighborhood. 
By  that  time,  he  said,  Jen,  with  the  three  or  four  help- 
ers and  servants  who  had  not  perished  in  the  other 
buildings,  one  or  two  native  Bible-women,  a  few  chil- 
dren of  native  Christians  and  the  white  man  were  all 
in  the  main  house,  and  were  firing  through  the  win- 
dows. They  had  all  undoubtedly  been  burned  to  death, 
as  only  the  white  man  had  come  out.  He  himself 
could  not  get  close  enough  to  see  much  of  what  hap- 
pened, though  he  slipped  in  among  the  curious  crowd 
outside  and  picked  up  what  information  he  could.  The 
attacking  parties  were  by  no  means  of  one  mind  or  of 
settled  purpose.  The  Lookers  among  them  were  for 


120  HILLS  OF  HAN 

a  quick  and  complete  massacre,  as  were  the  young 
rowdies  who  had  joined  in  the  attack  for  the  fun  of  it. 
But  there  were  more  moderate  councils.  And  so  many 
were  injured  or  killed  by  the  accurate  marksmanship 
of  the  young  foreign  devil,  that  for  a  time  they  all 
seemed  to  lose  heart.  The  Lookers  were  subjected  to 
ridicule  by  the  crowd  because  by  their  incantations 
they  were  supposed  to  render  themselves  invisible  to 
foreign  eyes,  and  it  was  difficult  to  explain  the  high 
percentage  of  casualties  among  them  on  the  grounds 
of  accidental  contact  with  flying  bullets.  Finally  a 
ruse  was  decided  on.  The  white  man  was  to  come  out 
for  a  parley.  A  student,  recently  attached  to  the 
yamen  of  the  local  magistrate  as  an  interpreter  volun- 
teered— in  good  faith,  Wen  believed — to  act  in  that 
capacity  on  this  occasion. 

The  meeting  took  place  by  one  of  the  breaches  in 
the  wall.  The  engineer  demanded  that  the  three  prin- 
cipal leaders  of  the  Lookers  be  surrendered  to  him  on 
the  spot,  and  held  until  the  arrival  of  troops  from 
T'ainan.  While  they  were  pretending  to  listen,  a  party 
crept  around  behind  the  wall.  He  heard  them,  stepped 
back  in  time  to  avoid  being  clubbed  to  death,  in  a  mo- 
ment shot  two  of  them  dead,  and  shot  also  the  captain 
of  the  Lookers,  who  had  been  conducting  the  parley. 
Then,  evidently,  he  had  backed  toward  the  main  house 
and  had  nearly  reached  it  when  his  cartridges  gave  out. 

Doane  was  busy,  what  with  the  improvised  burial 
and  with  noting  down  Wen's  narrative,  until  nearly 
noon.  By  this  time  he  was  very  sleepy.  There  was 


CATASTROPHE  121 

nothing  more  he  could  do.  The  ruins  of  the  main 
house  would  not  be  cool  before  morning.  Nor  would 
the  soldiers  arrive.  He  decided  to  call  at  once  on  the 
magistrate  and  arrange  for  a  guard  to  be  left  in  charge 
of  the  compound ;  then  to  set  up  his  cot  in  a  cell  in  one 
of  the  local  caravansaries.  He  had  brought  a  little 
food,  and  the  magistrate  would  give  him  what  else  he 
needed.  The  innkeeper  would  brew  him  tea.  .  .  . 
Before  two  o'clock  he  was  asleep. 


He  was  awakened  by  a  persistent  light  tapping  at 
the  door.  Lying  there  in  the  dusky  room,  fully  clad, 
gazing  out  under  heavy  lids  at  the  dingy  wall  with  its 
dingier  banners  hung  about  lettered  with  the  Chinese 
characters  for  happiness  and  prosperity,  and  at  the  tat- 
tered gray  paper  squares  through  which  came  soft 
evening  sounds  of  mules  and  asses  munching  their 
fodder  at  the  long  open  manger,  of  children  talking, 
of  a  carter  singing  to  himself  in  quavering  falsetto,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  knocking  had  been  going  on  for 
a  very  long  time.  His  thoughts,  slowly  coming  awake, 
were  of  tragic  stuff.  Death  stalked  again  the  hills  of 
Hansi.  Friends  had  been  butchered.  The  blood  of 
his  race  had  been  spilled  again.  Life  was  a  grim 
thing.  .  .  . 

A  voice  called,  in  pidgin-English. 

He  replied  gruffly ;  sat  up ;  struck  a  match  and  lighted 
the  rush-light  on  the  table.  It  was  just  after  eight. 


122  HILLS  OF  HAN 

He  went  to  the  door ;  opened  it.  A  small,  soft,  yel- 
low Chinaman  stood  there. 

"What  do  you  want?"  Doane  asked  in  Chinese. 

The  yellow  man  looked  blank. 

"My  no  savvy,"  he  said. 

"What  side  you  belong?"  The  familiar  pidgin- 
English  phrases  sounded  grotesquely  in  Doane's  ears, 
even  as  they  fell  from  his  own  lips. 

"My  belong  Shanghai  side,"  explained  the  man. 

He  was  apparently  a  servant.  Some  one  would 
have  brought  him  out  here.  Though  to  what  end  it 
would  be  hard  to  guess,  for  a  servant  who  can  not 
make  himself  understood  has  small  value.  And  no 
Shanghai  man  can  do  that  in  Hansi. 

"What  pidgin  belong  you  this  side  ?" 

"My  missy  wanchee  chin-chin." 

Thus  the  man.  His  mistress  wished  a  word.  It  was 
odd.  Who,  what,  would  his  mistress  be ! 

Doane  always  made  it  a  rule,  in  these  caravan- 
saries, to  engage  the  "number  one"  room  if  it  was 
to  be  had.  A  countryside  inn,  in  China,  is  usually  a 
walled  rectangle  of  something  less  or  more  than  a  half- 
acre  in  extent.  Across  the  front  stands  the  innkeeper's 
house,  and  the  immense,  roofed,  swinging  gates,  built 
of  strong  timbers  and  planks.  Along  one  side  wall  ex- 
tend the  stables,  where  the  animals  stand  in  a  row, 
looking  over  the  manger  into  the  courtyard.  Along 
the  other  side  are  cell-like  rooms,  usually  on  the  same 
level  as  the  ground,  with  floors  of  dirt  or  worn  old 


CATASTROPHE  123 

tile,  with  a  table,  a  narrow  chair  or  two  of  bent  wood, 
and  the  inevitable  brick  kang,  or  platform  bed  with 
a  tiny  charcoal  stove  built  into  it  and  a  thickness  or 
two  of  matting  thrown  over  the  dirt  and  insect  life  of 
the  crumbling  surface.  At  the  end  of  the  court  oppo- 
site' the  gate  stands,  nearly  always,  a  small  separate 
building,  the  floor  raised  two  or  three  steps  from  the 
ground.  This  is,  in  the  pidgin  vernacular,  the  "number 
one"  room.  Usually,  however,  it  is  large  enough  for 
division  into  two  or  three  rooms.  In  the  present  in- 
stance there  were  two  rather  large  rooms  on  either 
side  of  an  entrance  hall.  Doane  had  been  ushered  into 
one  of  these  rooms  with  no  thought  for  the  possible  oc- 
cupant of  the  other,  beyond  sleepily  noting  that  the 
door  was  closed. 

Hastily  brushing  his  hair  and  smoothing  the  wrin- 
kles out  of  his  coat  he  stepped  across  the  hall.  That 
other  door  was  ajar  now.  He  tapped ;  and  a  woman's 
voice,  a  voice  not  unpleasing  in  quality,  cried,  in  Eng- 
lish, "Come  in!" 

4 

She  rose*  as  he  pushed  open  the  door,  from  the 
chair.  She  was  young — certainly  in  the  twenties — and 
unexpectedly,  curiously  beautiful.  Her  voice  was 
Western  American.  Her  abundant  hair  was  a  vivid 
yellow.  She  was  clad  in  a  rather  elaborate  negligee 
robe  that  looked  odd  in  the  dingy  room.  Her  cot  stood 
by  the  paper  windows,  on  a  square  of  new  white  mat- 


124  HILLS  OF  HAN 

ting.  Two  suit-cases  stood  on  bricks  nearer  the  kang. 
And  a  garment  was  tacked  up  across  the  broken  paper 
squares. 

"I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  she  said  breathlessly. 
"But  it's  getting  unbearable.  I've  waited  here  ever 
since  yesterday  for  some  word.  I  know  there  was 
trouble.  I  heard  so  much  shooting.  And  they  made 
such  a  racket  yelling.  They  got  into  the  compound 
here.  I  had  to  cover  my  windows,  you  see.  It  was 
awful.  All  night  I  thought  they'd  murder  me.  And 
this  morning  I  slept  a  little  in  the  chair.  And  then 
you  came  in  ...  I  saw  you  .  .  .  and  I  was  wild 
to  ask  you  the  news.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  help  me. 
I've  sat  here  for  hours,  trying  to  keep  from  disturbing 
you.  I  knew  you  were  sleeping." 

She  ran  on  in  an  ungoverned,  oddly  intimate  way. 

"I'm  glad  to  be  of  what  service  I — "  He  found  him- 
self saying  something  or  other;  wondering  with  a 
strangely  cold  mind  what  he  could  possibly  do  and 
why  on  earth  she  was  here.  His  own  long  pent-up 
emotional  nature  was  answering  hers  with  profoundly 
disturbing  force. 

"I  ought  to  ask  you  to  sit  down,"  she  was  saying. 
She  caught  his  arm  and  almost  forced  him  into  the 
chair.  She  even  stroked  his  shoulder,  nervously  yet 
casually.  He  coldly  told  himself  that  he  must  keep 
steady,  impersonal;  it  was  the  unexpectedness  of  this 
queer  situation,  the  shock  of  it  .  .  . 

"It's  all  right,"  said  she.  "I'll  sit  on  the  cot.  It's  a 
pig-sty  here.  But  sometimes  you  can't  help  these 


CATASTROPHE  125 

things.  .  .  .  Please  tell  me  what  dreadful  thing  has 
happened !" 

She  had  large  brown  eyes  .  .  .  odd,  with  that 
hair !  .  .  .  and  they  met  his,  hung  on  them. 

In  a  low  measured  voice  he  explained : 

"The  natives  attacked  a  mission  station  here — " 

"Oh,  just  a  mission!" 

"They  burned  it  down,  and  killed  all  but  one  of  the 
workers  there." 

"Were  they  white?" 

"The  workers  were  Chinese,  Christian  Chinese. 
But—" 

"Oh,  I  see !  I  couldn't  imagine  what  it  was  all  about. 
It's  been  frightful.  Sitting  here,  without  a  word.  But 
if  it  was  just  among  the  Chinese,  then  where's — I've 
got  to  tell  you  part  of  it — where's  Harley  Beggins? 
He  brought  me  out  here.  He  isn't  the  kind  that  skips 
out  without  a  word.  I've  known  him  two  years.  He's 
a  good  fellow.  You  see,  this  thing — whatever  it  is — 
leaves  me  in  a  hole.  I  can't  just  sit  here." 

"I  am  trying  to  tell  you.  Please  listen  as  calmly  as 
you  can.  First  tell  me  something  about  this  Harley 
Beggins." 

"He's  with  the  Ho  Shan  Company.  An  engineer. 
But  say — you  don't  mean — you're  not  going  to—" 

"He  was  a  young  man  ?" 

"Yes.  Tall.  Curly  hair.  A  fine-looking  young  man. 
And  very  refined.  His  family  .  .  .  but,  my  God, 
you — " 

"You  must  keep  quiet !" 


126  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Keep  quiet !  I'd  like  to  know  how,  when  you  keep 
me  in  suspense  like  this !"  She  was  on  her  feet  now. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you.  But  you  must  control  your- 
self. Mr.  Beggins  must  be  the  young  engineer  who 
tried  to  help  the  people  in  the  compound." 

"He  was  killed?" 

"Quiet !  Yes,  he  was  killed.  I  buried  him  this  morn- 
ing." 

Then  the  young  woman's  nerves  gave  way  utterly. 
Doane  found  his  mind  divided  between  the  cold 
thought  of  leaving  her,  perhaps  asking  the  magistrate 
to  give  her  an  escort  down  to  Ping  Yang  or  up  through 
the  wall  to  Peking,  and  the  other  terribly  strong  im- 
pulse to  stay.  It  was  clear  that  she  was  not — well,  a 
good  woman;  excitingly  clear.  She  said  odd  things. 
"Well,  see  where  this  mess  leaves  me!"  for  one.  And, 
"What's  to  become  of  me?  Do  I  just  stay  out  here? 
Die  here?  Is  this  all?"  .  .  .  When,  during  a  lull 
in  the  scene  she  was  making  he  undertook  to  go,  she 
clung  to  him  and  sobbed  on  his  shoulder.  The  young 
engineer  had  meant  little  in  her  life.  Her  present  emo- 
tion was  almost  wholly  fright. 

He  knew,  then,  that  he  couldn't  go.  He  was  being 
swept  toward  destruction.  It  seemed  like  that.  He 
could  think  coolly  about  it  during  the  swift  moments. 
He  could  watch  his  own  case.  One  by  one,  in  quick- 
flashing  thoughts,  he  brought  up  all  the  arguments  for 
morality,  for  duty,  for  common  decency,  and  one  by 
one  they  failed  him.  Something  in  life  was  too  strong 
for  him.  Something  in  his  nature.  .  .  .  This,  then, 


CATASTROPHE  127 

was  the  natural  end  of  all  his  brooding,  speculating, 
struggling  with  the  demon  of  unbelief.  .  .  .  And 
even  then  he  felt  the  hideously  tragic  quality  of  this 
hour. 

5 

She  was,  it  came  out,  a  notorious  woman  of  Soo- 
chow  Road,  Shanghai ;  one  of  the  so-called  "American 
girls"  that  have  brought  a  good  name  to  local  disgrace. 
The  new  American  judge,  at  that  time  engaged  in 
driving  out  the  disreputable  women  and  the  gamblers 
from  the  quasi  protection  of  the  consular  courts,  had 
issued  a  warrant  for  her  arrest,  whereupon  young 
Beggins,  who  had  been  numbered  among  her  "friends," 
had  undertaken  to  protect  her,  out  here  in  the  interior, 
until  the  little  wave  of  reform  should  have  passed. 

Despite  her  vulgarity,  and  despite  the  chill  of  spir- 
itual death  in  his  heart,  he  wished  to  be  kind  to  her. 
Something  of  the  long- frustrated  emotional  quality  of 
the  man  overflowed  toward  her.  He  did  what  he 
could;  laid  her  case  before  the  magistrate,  and  left 
enough  money  to  buy  her  a  ticket  to  Peking  from  the 
northern  railroad  near  Kalgan.  This  in  the  morning. 

One  other  thing  he  did  in  the  morning  was  to  write 
to  Hidderleigh,  at  Shanghai,  telling  enough  of  the 
truth  about  his  fall,  and  asking  that  his  successor  be 
sent  out  at  the  earliest  moment  possible.  And  he  sent 
off  the  letter,  early,  at  the  Chinese  post-office.  At  least 
he  needn't  play  the  hypocrite.  The  worst  imaginable 
disaster  had  come  upon  him.  His  real  life,  it  seemed, 


128  HILLS  OF  HAN 

was  over.  As  for  telling  the  truth  at  the  mission,  his 
mind  would  shape  a  course.  The  easiest  thing  would 
be  to  tell  Boatwright,  straight.  Though  in  any  case  it 
would  come  around  to  them  from  Shanghai.  He  had 
sealed  his  fate  when  he  posted  the  letter.  They  would 
surely  know,  all  of  them.  Henry  Withery  would  know. 
It  would  reach  the  congregations  back  there  in  the 
States.  At  the  consulates  and  up  and  down  the  coast 
— where  men  drank  and  gambled  and  carved  fortunes 
out  of  great  inert  China  and  loved  as  they  liked — they 
would  be  laughing  at  him  within  a  fortnight. 

And  then  he  thought  of  Betty. 

That  night,  on  the  march  back  to  T'ainan,  he  stood, 
a  solitary  figure  on  the  Pass  of  the  Flighting  Geese, 
looking  up,  arms  outstretched,  toward  the  mountain 
that  for  thousands  of  years  has  been  to  the  sons  of 
Han  a  sacred  eminence;  and  the  old  prayer,  handed 
down  from  another  Oriental  race  as  uttered  by  a 
greater  sinner  than  he,  burst  from  his  lips : 

"I  will  lift  mine  eyes  to  the  hills,  from  whence 
cometh  my  help!" 

But  no  help  came  to  Griggsby  Doane  that  night. 
With  tears  lying  warm  on  his  cheeks  he  strode  down 
the  long  slope  toward  T'ainan. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LOVE  IS  A  TROUBLE 


IT  WAS  early  morning — the  first  day  of  April — 
when  the  Pacific  liner  that  carried  Betty  Doane  and 
Jonathan  Brachey  out  of  Yokohama  dropped  anchor 
in  the  river  below  Shanghai  and  there  discharged  pas- 
sengers and  freight  for  all  central  and  northern  China. 

Brachey,  on  that  occasion,  watched  from  his  cabin 
porthole  while  Betty  and  the  Hasmers  descended  the 
accommodation  ladder  and  boarded  the  company's 
launch.  Then,  not  before,  he  drank  coffee  and  nibbled 
a  roll.  His  long  face  was  gray  and  deeply  lined.  He 
had  not  slept. 

He  went  up  to  Shanghai  on  the  next  launch,  walked 
directly  across  the  Bund  to  the  row  of  steamship  of- 
fices, and  engaged  passage  on  a  north-bound  coasting 
steamer.  That  evening  he  dined  alone,  out  on  the 
Yellow  Sea,  steaming  toward  Tsingtau,  Chefu  and 
(within  the  five  days)  Tientsin.  He  hadn't  meant  to 
take  in  the  northern  ports  at  this  time;  his  planned 
itinerary  covered  the  Yangtse  Valley,  where  the  dis- 
orderly young  shoots  of  revolution  were  ripening 
slowly  into  red  flower.  But  he  was  a  shaken  man.  As 

129 


130  HILLS  OF  HAN 

he  saw  the  problem  of  his  romance,  there  were  tw* 
persons  to  be  saved,  Betty  and  himself.  He  had  be- 
haved, on  the  one  occasion,  outrageously.  He  could 
see  his  action  now  as  nothing  other  than  weakness, 
curiously  despicable,  in  the  light  of  the  pitiless  facts. 
Reason  had  left  him.  Gusts  of  emotion  lashed  him. 
He  now  regarded  the  experience  as  a  storm  that  must 
be  somehow  weathered.  He  couldn't  weather  it  in 
Shanghai.  Not  with  Betty  there.  He  would  surely  seek 
her;  find  her.  With  his  disordered  soul  he  would  cry 
out  to  her.  In  this  alarming  mood  no  subterfuge  would 
appear  too  mean — sending  clandestine  notes  by  yellow 
hands,  arranging  furtive  meetings. 

He  was,  of  course,  running  away  from  her,  from 
his  task,  from  himself.  It  was  expensive  business.  But 
he  had  meant  to  work  up  as  far  as  Tientsin  and  Peking 
before  the  year  ran  out.  He  was,  after  all,  but  taking 
that  part  of  it  first.  To  this  bit  of  justification  he  clung. 
He  passed  but  one  night  at  Tientsin,  in  the  curiously 
British  hotel,  on  an  out-and-out  British  street,  where 
one  saw  little  more  to  suggest  the  East  than  the  Chi- 
nese policeman  at  the  corner,  an  occasional  passing 
amah  or  mafoo,  and  the  blue-robed,  soft-footed  hotel 
servants ;  then  on  to  Peking  by  train,  an  easy  four-hour 
run,  lounging  in  a  European  dining-car  where  the  al- 
lied troops  had  fought  their  way  foot  by  foot  only 
seven  years  earlier. 

Brachey,  though  regarded  by  critical  reviewers  as 
a  rising  authority  on  the  Far  East,  had  never  seen 
Peking.  India  he  knew;  the  Straits  Settlements — at 


LOVE  IS  A  TROUBLE  131 

Singapore  and  Penang  he  was  a  person  of  modest  but 
real  standing;  Borneo,  Java,  Celebes  and  the  rest  of 
the  vast  archipelago,  where  flying  fish  skim  a  bur- 
nished sea  and  green  islands  float  above  a  shimmering 
horizon  against  white  clouds;  the  Philippines,  Siam, 
Cochin  China  and  Hongkong;  but  the  swarming  Mid- 
dle Kingdom  and  its  Tartar  capital  were  fresh  fuel  to 
his  coldly  eager  mind.  He  stopped,  of  course,  at  the 
almost  Parisian  hotel  of  the  International  Sleeping 
Car  Company,  just  off  Legation  Street. 

Peking,  in  the  spring  of  1907,  presented  a  far  from 
unpleasant  aspect  to  the  eye  of  the  traveler.  The 
siege  of  the  legations  was  already  history  and  half- 
forgotten;  the  quarter  itself  had  been  wholly  rebuilt. 
The  clearing  away  of  the  crowded  Chinese  houses 
about  the  legations  left  &  glacis  of  level  ground  that 
gave  dignity  to  the  walled  enclosure.  Legation  Street, 
paved,  bordered  by  stone  walks  and  gray  compound- 
walls,  dotted  with  lounging  figures  of  Chinese  gate- 
keepers and  alert  sentries  of  this  or  that  or  another  na- 
tion— British,  American,  Italian,  Austrian,  Japanese, 
French,  Belgian,  Dutch,  German — offered  a  pleasant 
stroll  of  a  late  afternoon  when  the  sun  was  low. 
Through  gateways  there  were  glimpses  to  be  caught  of 
open-air  tea  parties,  of  soldiers  drilling,  or  even  of 
children  playing.  Tourists  wandered  afoot  or  rolled 
by  in  rickshaws  drawn  by  tattered  blue  and  brown 
coolies. 

From  the  western  end  of  the  street  beyond  the 
American  glacis,  one  might  see  the  traffic  through  the 


132  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Chien  Gate,  with  now  and  then  a  nose-led  train  of 
camels  humped  above  the  throng ;  and  beyond,  the  vast 
brick  walls  and  the  shining  yellow  palace  roofs  of  the 
Imperial  City.  Around  to  the  north,  across  the  Jap- 
anese glacis,  one  could  stroll,  in  the  early  evening,  to 
the  motion-picture  show,  where  one-reel  films  from 
Paris  were  run  off  before  an  audience  of  many  colors 
and  more  nations  and  costumes,  while  a  placid  China- 
man manipulated  a  mechanical  piano. 


Brachey  had  letters  to  various  persons  of  importance 
along  the  street.  With  the  etiquette  of  remote  colonial 
capitals,  he  had  long  since  trained  himself  to  a  me- 
chanical conformity.  Accordingly  he  devoted  his  first 
afternoon  to  a  round  of  calls,  by  rickshaw;  leaving 
cards  in  the  box  provided  for  the  purpose  at  the  gate 
house  of  each  compound.  Before  another  day  had 
gone  he  found  return  cards  in  his  box  at  the  hotel; 
and  thus  was  he  established  as  persona  grata  on  Le- 
gation Street.  Invitations  followed.  The  American 
minister  had  him  for  tiffin.  There  were  pleasant 
meals  at  the  legation  barracks.  Tourist  groups  at  the 
hotel  made  the  inevitable  advances,  which  he  met  with 
austere  dignity.  Meantime  he  busied  himself  discuss- 
ing with  experts  the  vast  problems  confronting  the 
Chinese  in  adjusting  their  racial  life  to  the  modern 
world,  and  within  a  few  days  was  jotting  down  notes 
and  preparing  tentative  outlines  for  his  book. 


LOVE  IS  A  TROUBLE  133 

This  activity  brought  him,  at  first,  some  relief  from 
the  emotional  storm  through  which  he  had  been  pass- 
ing. Work,  he  told  himself,  was  the  thing;  work,  and 
a  deliberate  avoidance  of  further  entanglements. 
•i  If,  in  taking  this  course,  he  was  dealing  severely 
with  the  girl  whose  brightly  pretty  face  and  gently 
charming  ways  had  for  a  time  disarmed  him,  he  was 
dealing  quite  as  severely  with  himself;  for  beneath  his 
crust  of  self-sufficiency  existed  shy  but  turbulent 
springs  of  feeling.  That  was  the  trouble;  that  had  al- 
ways been  the  trouble;  he  dared  not  let  himself  feel. 
He  had  let  go  once  before,  just  once,  only  to  skim  the 
very  border  of  tragedy.  The  color  of  that  one  bitter 
experience  of  his  earlier  manhood  ran  through  every 
subsequent  act  of  his  life.  Month  by  month,  through 
the  years,  he  had  winced  as  he  drew  a  check  to  the 
hard,  handsome,  strange  woman  who  had  been,  it  ap- 
peared, his  wife;  who  was,  incredibly,  his  wife  yet. 
With  a  set  face  he  had  read  and  courteously  answered 
letters  from  this  stranger.  A  woman  of  worldly 
wants,  all  of  which  came,  in  the  end,  to  money.  The 
business  of  his  life  had  settled  down  to  a  systematic 
meeting  of  those  wants.  That,  and  industriously  em- 
ploying his  talent  for  travel  and  solitude. 

No,  the  thing  was  to  think,  not  feel.  To  logic  and 
will  he  pinned  his  faith.  Impulses  rose  every  day,  here 
in  Peking,  to  write  Betty.  It  wouldn't  be  hard  to  trace 
her  father's  address.  For  that  matter  he  knew  the 
city.  He  found  it  impossible  to  forget  a  word  of  hers. 
Vivid  memories  of  her  round  pretty  face,  of  the  quick 


134  HILLS  OF  HAN 

humorous  expression  about  her  brown  eyes,  the  move- 
ments of  her  trim  little  head  and  slim  body,  recurred 
with,  if  anything,  a  growing  vigor.  They  would  leap 
into  his  mind  at  unexpected,  awkward  moments,  cut- 
ting the  thread  of  sober  conversations.  At  such  mo- 
ments he  felt  strongly  that  impulse  to  explain  himself 
further.  But  his  clear  mind  told  him  that  there  would 
be  no  good  in  it.  None.  She  might  respond;  that 
would  involve  them  the  more  deeply.  He  had  gone 
too  far.  He  had  (this  in  the  bitter  hours)  trans- 
gressed. The  thing  was  to  let  her  forget;  it  would, 
he  sincerely  tried  to  hope,  be  easier  for  her  to  forget 
than  for  himself.  He  had  to  try  to  hope  that. 


But  on  an  evening  the  American  military  attache 
dined  with  him.  They  sat  comfortably  over  the  coffee 
and  cigars  at  one  side  of  the  large  hotel  dining-room. 
Brachey  liked  the  attache.  His  military  training,  his 
strong  practical  instinct  for  fact,  his  absorption  in  his 
work,  made  him  the  sort  with  whom  Brachey,  who 
had  no  small  talk,  really  no  social  grace,  could  let  him- 
self go.  And  the  attache  knew  China.  He  had  tra- 
versed the  interior  from  Manchuria  and  Mongolia  to 
the  borders  of  Thibet  and  the  Lolo  country  of  Yunnan, 
and  could  talk,  to  sober  ears,  interestingly.  On  this 
occasion,  after  dwelling  long  on  the  activity  of  secret 
revolutionary  societies  in  the  southern  provinces  and  in 


LOVE  IS  A  TROUBLE  135 

the  Yangtse  Valley,  he  suddenly  threw  out  the  fol- 
lowing remark: 

"But  of  course,  Brachey,  there's  an  excellent  chance, 
right  now,  to  study  a  revolution  in  the  making  out 
here  in  Hansi.  You  can  get  into  the  heart  of  it  in 
less  than  a  week's  travel.  And  if  you  don't  mind  a 
certain  element  of  danger  .  .  ." 

The  very  name  of  the  province  thrilled  Brachey. 
He  sat,  fingering  his  cigar,  his  face  a  mask  of  casual 
attention,  fighting  to  control  the  uprush  of  feeling. 
The  attache  was  talking  on.  Brachey  caught  bits  here 
and  there: 

"You've  seen  this  crowd  of  banker  persons  from 
Europe  around  the  hotel?  Came  out  over  the  Trans- 
Siberian  with  their  families.  A  committee  represent- 
ing the  Directorate  of  the  Ho  Shan  Company.  The 
story  is  that  they've  been  asked  to  keep  out  of  Hansi 
for  the  present  for  fear  of  violence.  .  .  .  You'd  get 
the  whole  thing,  out  there — officials  with  a  stake  in  the 
local  mines  shrewdly  stirring  up  trouble  while  pre- 
tending to  put  it  down ;  rich  young  students  agitating, 
the  Chinese  equivalent  of  our  soap-box  Socialists;  and 
queer  Oriental  motives  and  twists  that  you  and  I  can't 
expect  to  understand.  .  .  .  The  significant  thing 
though,  the  big  fact  for  you,  I  should  say — is  that  if 
the  Hansi  agitators  succeed  in  turning  this  little  rum- 
pus over  the  mining  company  into  something  of  a 
revolution  against  the  Imperial  Government,  it'll  bring 
them  into  an  understanding  with  the  southern  prov- 


136  HILLS  OF  HAN 

inces.  It  may  yet  prove  the  deciding  factor  in  the 
big  row.  Something  as  if  Ohio  should  go  democratic 
this  year,  back  home.  You  see?  .  .  .  There  are 
queer  complications.  Our  Chinese  secretary  says  that 
a  personal  quarrel  between  two  mandarins  is  a  prom- 
inent item  in  the  mix-up.  .  .  .  That's  the  place 
for  you,  all  right — Hansi!  They've  got  the  narrow- 
gauge  railway  nearly  through  to  T'ainan-fu,  I  believe. 
You  can  pick  up  a  guide  here  at  the  hotel.  He'll  en- 
gage a  cook.  You  won't  drink  the  water,  of  course ; 
better  carry  a  few  cases  of  Tan  San.  And  don't  eat 
the  green  vegetables.  Take  some  beef  and  mutton  and 
potatoes  and  rice.  You  can  buy  chickens  and  eggs. 
Get  a  money  belt  and  carry  all  the  Mexican  dollars  you 
can  stagger  under.  Provincial  money's  no  good  a 
hundred  miles  away.  Take  some  English  gold  for  a 
reserve.  That's  good  everywhere.  And  you'll  want 
your  overcoat." 

Five  minutes  later  Brachey  heard  this : 

"A.  P.  Browning,  the  Agent  General  of  the  Ho 
Shan  Company,  is  stopping  here  now,  along  with  the 
committee.  Talk  with  him,  first.  Get  the  company's 
view  of  it.  He'll  talk  freely.  Then  go  out  there  and 
have  a  look — see  for  yourself.  Say  the  word,  and  I'll 
give  you  a  card  to  Browning." 

Now  Brachey  looked  up.  It  seemed  to  him,  so  mo- 
mentous was  the  hour,  that  his  pulse  had  stopped. 
He  sat  very  still,  looking  at  his  guest,  obviously  about 
to  speak. 

The  attache,  to  whom  this  man's  deliberate  cold 


LOVE  IS  A  TROUBLE  137 

manner  was  becoming  a  friendly  enough  matter  of 
course,  waited. 

"Thanks,"  Brachey  finally  said.  "Be  glad  to  have 
it." 

But  the  particular  card,  scribbled  by  the  attache, 
there  across  the  table,  was  never  presented.  For  late 
that  night,  in  a  bitter  revulsion  of  feeling,  Brachey 
tore  it  up. 

4 

In  the  morning,  however,  when  he  stopped  at  the 
desk,  the  Belgian  clerk  handed  him  a  thick  letter  from 
his  attorney  in  New  York,  forwarded  from  his  bank 
in  Shanghai.  He  read  and  reread  it,  while  his  break- 
fast turned  cold ;  studied  it  with  an  unresponsive  brain. 

It  seemed  that  his  wife's  attorney  had  approached 
his  with  a  fresh  proposal.  Her  plan  had  been  to 
divorce  him  on  grounds  of  desertion  and  non-support ; 
this  after  his  refusal  to  supply  what  is  euphemistically 
termed  "statutory  evidence."  But  the  fact  that  she 
had  from  month  to  month  through  the  years  accepted 
money  from  him,  and  not  infrequently  had  demanded 
extra  sums  by  letter  and  telegram,  made  it  necessary 
that  he  enter  into  collusion  with  her  to  the  extent  of 
keeping  silent  and  permitting  her  suit  to  go  through 
unopposed.  His  own  instructions  to  his  lawyer  stood 
flatly  to  the  contrary. 

But  a  new  element  had  entered  the  situation.  She 
wished  to  marry  again.  The  man  of  her  new  choice 
had  means  enough  to  care  for  her  comfortably.  And 


138  HILLS  OF  HAN 

in  her  eagerness  to  be  free  she  proposed  to  release  him 
from  payment  of  alimony  beyond  an  adjustment  to 
cover  the  bare  cost  of  her  suit,  on  condition  that  he 
withdraw  his  opposition. 

It  was  the  old  maneuvering  and  bargaining.  At 
first  thought  it  disgusted  and  hurt  him.  The  woman's 
life  had  never  come  into  contact  with  his,  since  the 
first  few  days  of  their  married  life,  without  hurting 
him.  He  had  been  harsh,  bitter,  unforgiving.  He  had 
believed  himself  throughout  in  the  right.  She  had 
shown  (in  his  view)  no  willingness  to  take  marriage 
seriously,  give  him  and  herself  a  fair  trial,  make  a  job 
of  it.  She  had  exhibited  no  trait  that  he  could  accept 
as  character.  It  had  seemed  to  him  just  that  she  should 
suffer  as  well  as  he. 

But  now,  as  the  meaning  of  the  letter  penetrated 
his  mind,  his  spirits  began  to  rise.  It  was  a  tendency 
he  resisted;  but  he  was  helpless.  From  moment  to 
moment  his  heart  swelled.  Not  once  before  in  four 
years  had  the  thought  of  freedom  occurred  to  him  as 
a  desirable  possibility.  But  now  he  knew  that  he  would 
accept  it,  even  at  the  cost  of  collusion  and  subterfuge. 
He  saw  nothing  of  the  humor  in  the  situation;  that 
he,  who  had  judged  the  woman  so  harshly,  should 
find  his  code  of  ethics,  his  very  philosophy,  dashed 
to  the  ground  by  a  look  from  a  pair  of  brown  eyes, 
meant  little.  It  was  simply  that  up  to  the  present  time 
an  ethical  attitude  had  been  the  important  thing, 
whereas  now  the  important  thing  was  Betty.  That 
was  all  there  seemed  to  be  to  it.  But  then  there  had 


LOVE  IS  A  TROUBLE  139 

been  almost  as  little  of  humor  as  of  love  in  the  queerly 
solitary  life  of  Jonathan  Brachey. 

He  cabled  his  attorney,  directly  after  breakfast,  to 
agree  to  the  divorce.  Before  noon  he  had  engaged  a 
guide  and  arranged  with  him  to  take  the  morning  train 
southward  to  the  junction  whence  that  narrow-gauge 
Hansi  Line  was  pushing  westward  toward  the  ancient 
provincial  capital. 

In  all  this  there  was  no  plan.  Brachey,  confused, 
aware  that  the  instinctive  pressures  of  life  were  too 
much  for  him,  that  he  was  beaten,  was  soberly,  breath- 
lessly, driving  toward  the  girl  who  had  touched  and 
tortured  his  encrusted  heart.  He  was  not  even  honest 
with  himself;  he  couldn't  be.  He  dwelt  on  the  im- 
portance of  studying  the  Hansi  problem  at  close  range. 
He  decided,  among  other  things,  that  he  wouldn't  per- 
mit himself  to  see  Betty,  that  he  would  merely  stay 
secretly  near  her,  certainly  until  a  cablegram  from 
New  York  should  announce  his  positive  freedom.  In 
accordance  with  this  decision  he  tore  up  his  letters  to 
her  as  fast  as  they  were  written.  If  the  fact  that  he 
was  now  writing  such  letters  indicated  an  alarming 
condition  in  his  emotional  nature,  at  least  his  will  was 
still  intact.  He  proved  that  by  tearing  them  up.  He 
even  found  this  thought  encouraging. 

But,  of  course,  he  had  taken  his  real  beating  when 
he  gave  up  his  plans  and  caught  the  coasting  steamer 
at  Shanghai.  He  was  to  learn  now  that  rushing  away 
from  Betty  and  rushing  toward  her  were  irradiations 
of  the  same  emotion. 


140  HILLS  OF  HAN 

He  left  Peking  on  that  early  morning  way-train  of 
passenger  and  freight  cars,  without  calling  again  at 
the  legation;  merely  sent  a  chit  to  the  Commandant  of 
Marines  to  say  that  he  was  off.  He  had  not  heard  of 
the  requirement  that  a  white  traveler  into  the  interior 
carry  a  consular  passport  countersigned  by  Chinese 
authorities,  and  also,  for  purposes  of  identification,  a 
supply  of  cards  with  the  Chinese  equivalent  of  his 
name;  so  he  set  forth  without  either,  and  (as  a  matter 
of  fixed  principle)  without  firearms. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  WAYFARER 

1 

PASSENGER  traffic  on  the  Hansi  Line  ended  at 
this  time  at  a  village  called  Shau  T'ing,  in  the 
heart  of  the  red  mountains.  Brachey  spent  the  night 
in  a  native  caravansary,  his  folding  cot  set  up  on  the 
earthen  floor.  The  room  was  dirty,  dilapidated,  alive 
with  insects  and  thick  with  ancient  odors.  A  charcoal 
fire  in  the  crumbling  brick  kang  gave  forth  fumes  of 
gas  that  suggested  the  possibility  of  asphyxiation  be- 
fore morning.  Brachey  sent  his  guide,  a  fifty-year-old 
Tientsin  Chinese  of  corpulent  figure,  known,  for  con- 
venience, as  "J°hri>"  for  water  and  extinguished  the 
fire.  The  upper  half  of  the  inner  wall  was  a  wooden 
lattice  covered  with  paper;  and  by  breaking  all  the 
paper  squares  within  his  reach,  Brachey  contrived  to 
secure  a  circulation  of  air.  Next  he  sent  John  for  a 
piece  of  new  yellow  matting,  and  by  spreading  this 
under  the  cot  created  a  mild  sensation  of  cleanliness, 
which,  though  it  belied  the  facts,  made  the  situation 
a  thought  more  bearable.  For  Brachey,  though  a  vet- 
eran traveler,  was  an  extremely  fastidious  man.  He 
bore  dirt  and  squalor,  had  borne  them  at  intervals  for 

141 


142  HILLS  OF  HAN 

years,  without  ever  losing  his  squeamish  discomfort 
at  the  mere  thought  of  them.  But  the  stern  will  that 
was  during  these  years  the  man's  outstanding  trait, 
and  his  intense  absorption  in  his  work,  had  kept  him 
driving  ahead  through  all  petty  difficulties.  The  only 
outward  sign  of  the  strain  it  put  him  to  was  an  in- 
creased irritability. 

He  traveled  from  Shau  T'ing  to  Ping  Yang,  the 
next  day  in  an  unroofed  freight  car  without  a  seat, 
crowded  in  with  thirty-odd  Chinese  and  their  luggage. 
During  the  entire  day  he  spoke  hardly  a  word.  His 
two  servants  guarded  him  from  contact  with  the  other 
natives;  but  he  ignored  even  his  own  men.  At  a  way 
station,  where  the  engine  waited  half  an  hour  for 
water  and  coal,  a  lonely  division  engineer  from  Lom- 
bardy  called  out  a  greeting  in  bad  French.  Brachey 
coldly  snubbed  the  man. 

He  planned  to  pick  up  either  a  riding  animal  or  a 
mule  litter  at  Ping  Yang.  As  it  turned  out,  the  best 
John  could  secure  was  a  freight  cart;  springless,  of 
course.  T'ainan  was  less  than  a  hundred  miles  away, 
yet  he  was  doomed  to  three  days  of  travel  in  a  creak- 
ing, hard-riding  cart  through  the  sunken  roads,  where 
dust  as  fine  as  flour  sifts  through  the  clothing  and  rubs 
into  the  pores  of  the  skin,  and  to  two  more  nights  at 
native  inns — with  little  hope  of  better  accommodation 
at  T'ainan. 

By  this  time  Brachey  was  in  a  state  of  nerves  that 
alarmed  even  himself.  Neither  will  nor  imagination 
was  proving  equal  to  this  new  sort  of  strain.  The  con- 


THE  WAYFARER  143 

fusion  of  motives  that  had  driven  him  out  here  pro- 
vided no  sound  justification  for  the  journey.  When 
he  tried  to  think  work  now,  he  found  himself  thinking 
Betty.  And  misgivings  were  creeping  into  his  mind. 
It  amounted  to  demoralization. 

He  walked  out  after  the  solitary  dinner  of  soup  and 
curried  chicken  and  English  strawberry  jam.  The  lit- 
tle village  was  settling  into  evening  calm.  Men  and 
boys,  old  women  and  very  little  girls,  sat  in  the  shop 
fronts — here  merely  rickety  porticoes  with  open  door- 
ways giving  on  dingy  courtyards — or  played  about  the 
street.  Carpenters  were  still  working  on  the  roof  of 
the  new  railway  station.  Three  young  men,  in  an 
open  field,  were  playing  decorously  with  a  shuttlecock 
of  snake's  skin  and  duck  feathers,  deftly  kicking  it 
from  player  to  player.  Farther  along  the  street  a  mid- 
dle-aged man  of  great  dignity,  clad  in  a  silken  robe 
and  black  skull-cap  with  the  inevitable  red  knot,  was 
flying  a  colored  kite  .  .  .  through  all  this,  Jona- 
than Brachey,  the  expert  observer,  wandered  about  un- 
seeing. 

2 

Farther  up  the  hill,  however,  rounding  a  turn  in  the 
road,  he  stopped  short,  suddenly  alive  to  the  vivid 
outer  world.  A  newly  built  wall  of  brick  stood  before 
him,  enclosing  an  area  of  two  acres  or  more,  within 
which  appeared  the  upper  stories  of  European  houses", 
as  well  as  the  familiar  curving  roofs  of  Chinese  tile. 
And  just  outside  the  walls  two  young  men  and  two 


144  HILLS  OF  HAN 

young  women,  in  outing  clothes,  white  folk  all,  were 
playing  tennis.  To  their  courteous  greeting  he  re- 
sponded frigidly. 

Later  a  somewhat  baffled  young  Australian  led  him 
to  the  office  of  M.  Pourmont  and  presented  him. 

The  distinguished  French  engineer,  looking  up  from 
his  desk,  beheld  a  tall  man  in  homespun  knickerbock- 
ers, a  man  with  a  strong  if  slightly  forbidding  face. 
He  fingered  the  card. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Brashayee!  Indeed,  yes!  It  is  ze 
grand  plaisir!  But  it  mus'  not  be  true  zat  you  go  on 
all  ze  vay  to  T'ainan-fu." 

"Yes,"  Brachey  replied  with  icy  courtesy,  "I  am 
going  to  T'ainan." 

"But  ze  time,  he  is  not  vat  you  call — ripe.  One 
makes  ze  trouble.  It  is  only  a  month  zat  zay  t'row  ze 
pierre  at  me,  zay  tear  ze  cart  of  me,  zay  destroy  ze 
ear  of  me !  C 'hoses  a ff reuses!  I  mus'  not  let  you  go !'' 

Brachey  heard  this  without  taking  it  in  any  degree 
to  himself.  He  was  looking  at  the  left  ear  of  this 
stout,  bearded  Parisian,  from  which,  he  observed,  the 
lobe  was  gone.  .  .  .  Then,  with  a  quickening  pulse, 
he  thought  of  Betty  out  there  in  T'ainan,  in  real  dan- 
ger. 

"Come  wiz  me!"  cried  M.  Pourmont.  "I  vill  show 
you  vat  ve  do — nous  id."  And  snatching  up  a  bunch 
of  keys  he  led  Brachey  out  about  the  compound.  He 
opened  one  door  upon  what  appeared  to  be  a  heap  of 
old  clothes. 

"Des  sac  a  terres,"  he  explained. 


THE  WAYFARER  145 

Brachey  picked  one  up.  "Ah,"  he  remarked,  coldly 
interested — "sand-bags !" 

"Yes,  it  is  zat.  Sand-bag  for  ze  vail.  Ve  have  ze 
femme  Chinoise — ze  Chinese  vimmen — sew  zem  all 
every  day.  And  you  vill  look  ..."  He  led  the 
way  with  this  to  a  corner  of  the  grounds  where  the 
firm  loess  had  been  turned  up  with  a  pick.  "It  is  so, 
Monsieur  Brashayee,  partout.  All  is  ready.  In  von 
night  ve  fill  ze  bag,  ve  are  a  fort,  ve  are  ready.  .  .  . 
See!  An' see!" 

He  pointed  out  a  low  scaffolding  built  here  and  there 
along  the  compound  wall  for  possible  use  as  a  firing 
step.  Just  outside  the  wall  crowding  native  houses 
were  being  torn  down.  "I  buy  zem,"  explained  M. 
Pourmont  with  a  chuckle,  "an'  I  clear  avay.  I  make  a 
glacis,  n'est  ce  pas?"  On  several  of  the  flat  roofs  of 
supply  sheds  along  the  wall  were  heaps  of  the  bags, 
ready  filled,  covered  from  outside  eyes  with  old  boards. 
In  one  building,  under  lock  and  key,  were  two  machine 
guns  and  box  on  box  of  ammunition.  Back  in  M. 
Pourmont's  private  study  was  a  stand  of  modern  rifles. 

"You  vill  see  by  all  zis  vat  is  ze  t'ought  of  myself," 
concluded  the  genial  Frenchman.  "Ze  trouble  he  is 
real.  It  is  not  safe  to-day  in  Hansi.  Ze  Societe  of 
ze  Great  Eye — ze  Lookair — he  grow,  he  fait  I'exercice, 
he  make  ze  t'reat.  You  vill  not  go  to  T'ainan,  alone. 
It  is  not  right !" 

Brachey  was  growing  impatient  now. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  more  shortly  than  he  knew.  "I 
will  go  on." 


146  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"You  have  ze  arm — ze  revolvair?" 

Brachey  shook  his  head. 

"You  vill,  zen,  allow  me  to  give  you  zis." 

But  Brachey  declined  the  weapon  stiffly,  said  good 
night,  and  returned  to  the  inn  below. 

The  next  morning  a  Chinese  servant  brought  a  note 
from  M.  Pourmont.  If  he  would  go — thus  that  gen- 
tleman— and  if  he  would  not  so  much  as  carry  arms 
for  protection,  at  least  he  must  be  sure  to  get  into 
touch  with  M.  Griggsby  Doane  at  once  on  arriving  at 
T'ainan.  M.  Doane  was  a  man  of  strength  and  ad- 
dress. He  would  be  the  only  support  that  M.  Brachey 
could  look  for  in  that  turbulent  corner  of  the  world. 


The  lamp  threw  a  flickering  unearthly  light,  faintly 
yellow,  on  the  tattered  wall-hangings  that  bore  the 
Chinese  characters  signifying  happiness  and  hospital- 
ity and  other  genial  virtues.  The  lamp  was  of  early 
Biblical  pattern,  not  unlike  a  gravy  boat  of  iron,  full 
of  oil  or  grease,  in  which  the  wick  floated.  It  stood 
on  the  roughly-made  table. 

The  inn  compound  was  still,  save  for  the  stirring 
and  the  steady  crunching  of  the  horses  and  mules  at 
their  long  manger  across  the  courtyard. 

Brachey,  half  undressed,  sat  on  his  cot,  staring  at 
the  shadowy  brick  wall.  His  face  was  haggard.  There 
were  hollows  under  the  eyes.  His  hands  lay,  listless, 


THE  WAYFARER  147, 

on  his  knees.  The  fire  that  had  been  for  a  fortnight 
consuming  him  was  now,  for  the  moment,  burnt  out. 

But  at  least,  he  now  felt,  the  particular  storm  was 
over.  That  there  might  be  recurrences,  he  recognized. 
That  girl  had  found  her  way,  through  all  the  crust, 
to  his  heart.  The  result  had  been  nearly  unbearable 
while  it  lasted.  It  had  upset  his  reason;  made  a  fool 
of  him.  Here  he  was — now — less  than  a  day's  jour- 
ney from  her.  He  couldn't  go  back;  the  thought 
stirred  savagely  what  he  thought  of  as  the  shreds  of 
his  self-respect.  And  yet  to  go  on  was,  or  seemed,  un- 
thinkable. The  best  solution  seemed  to  be  merely  to 
make  use  of  T'ainan  as  a  stopping  place  for  the  night 
and  pass  on  to  some  other  inland  city.  But  this 
thought  carried  with  it  the  unnerving  fear  that  he 
would  fail  to  pass  on,  that  he  might  even  communicate 
with  her. 

His  life,  apparently,  was  a  lie.  He  had  believed 
since  his  boyhood  that  human  companionship  lay  apart 
from  the  line  of  his  development.  Even  his  one  or 
two  boy  friends  he  had  driven  off.  The  fact  embit- 
tered his  earlier  life;  but  it  was  so.  In  each  instance 
he  had  said  harsh  things  that  the  other  could  not  or 
would  not  overlook.  His  marriage  had  contributed 
further  proof.  Along  with  his  pitilessly  detached 
judgment  of  the  woman  went  the  sharp  consciousness 
that  he,  too,  had  failed  at  it.  He  couldn't  adapt  his 
life  to  the  lives  of  others.  Since  that  experience — 
these  four  years — by  living  alone,  keeping  away,  keep- 


148  HILLS  OF  HAN 

ing  clear  out  of  his  own  land,  even  out  of  touch  with 
the  white  race,  and  making  something  of  a  success  of 
it,  he  had  not  only  proved  himself  finally,  he  had  even, 
in  a  measure,  justified  himself.  Yet  now,  a  chance 
meeting  with  a  nineteen-year-old  girl  had,  at  a  breath, 
destroyed  the  laborious  structure  of  his  life.  It  all 
came  down  to  the  fact  that  emotion  had  at  last  caught 
him  as  surely  as  it  had  caught  the  millions  of  other 
men — men  he  had  despised.  He  couldn't  live  now 
without  feeling  again  that  magic  touch  of  warmth  in 
his  breast.  He  couldn't  go  on  alone. 

He  bowed  his  head  over  it.  Round  and  round  went 
his  thoughts,  cutting  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  tem- 
pered metal  of  his  mind. 

He  said  to  her :  "I  am  selfish." 

He  had  supposed  he  was  telling  the  simple  truth. 
But  clearly  he  wasn't.  At  this  moment,  as  at  every 
moment  since  that  last  night  on  the  boat  deck,  he  was 
as  dependent  on  her  as  a  helpless  child.  And  now  he 
wasn't  even  selfish.  These  two  days  since  the  little 
talk  with  M.  Pourmont  he  had  been  stirred  deeply  by 
the  thought  that  she  was  in  danger. 

Over  and  over,  with  his  almost  repelling  detachment 
of  mind,  he  reviewed  the  situation.  She  might  not 
share  his  present  emotion.  Perhaps  she  had  recovered 
quickly  from  the  romantic  drift  that  had  caught  them 
on  the  ship.  She  was  a  sensitive,  expressive  little 
thing;  quite  possibly  the  new  environment  had  caught 
her  up  and  changed  her,  filled  her  life  with  fresh  in- 
terest or  turned  it  in  a  new  direction.  With  this 


THE  WAYFARER  149 

thought  was  interwoven  the  old  bitter  belief  that  no 
woman  could  love  him.  It  must  have  been  that  she 
was  stirred  merely  by  that  romantic  drift  and  had  en- 
dowed him,  the  available  man,  with  the  charms  that 
dwelt  only  in  her  own  fancy.  Young  girls  were  im- 
pressionable ;  they  did  that. 

But  suppose — it  was  excitingly  implausible — she 
hadn't  swung  away  from  him.  What  would  her  mis- 
sionary folk  say  to  him  and  his  predicament  ?  Sooner 
or  later  he  would  be  free;  but  would  that  clear  him 
with  these  dogmatic  persons,  with  her  father?  Prob- 
ably not.  And  if  not,  wouldn't  the  fact  thrust  unhap- 
piness  upon  her?  You  could  trust  these  professionally 
religious  people,  he  believed,  to  make  her  as  unhappy 
as  they  could — nag  at  her. 

Suppose,  finally,  the  unthinkable  thing,  that  she — 
he  could  hardly  formulate  even  the  thought;  he 
couldn't  have  uttered  it — loved  him.  What  did  he 
know  of  her?  Who  was  she?  What  did  she  know 
of  adult  life?  What  were  her  little  day-by-day  tastes 
and  impulses,  such  as  make  or  break  any  human  com- 
panionship .  .  .?  And  who  was  he?  What  right 
had  he  to  take  on  his  shoulders  the  responsibility  for 
a  human  life  ...  a  delicately  joyous  little  life? 
For  that  was  what  it  came  down  to.  It  came  to  him, 
now,  like  a  ray  of  blinding  light,  that  he  who  quickens 
the  soul  of  a  girl  must  carry  the  burden  of  that  soul  to 
his  grave.  At  times  during  the  night  he  thought  wist- 
fully of  his  freedom,  of  his  pleasant,  selfish  solitude 
and  the  inexigent  companionship  of  his  work. 


150  HILLS  OF  HAN 

His  suit-case  lay  on  the  one  chair.  He  drew  it 
over;  got  out  the  huge,  linen-mounted  map  of  the  Chi- 
nese Empire  that  is  published  by  the  China  Inland 
Mission,  and  studied  the  roads  about  T'ainan.  That 
from  the  east — his  present  route — swung  to  the  south 
on  emerging  from  the  hills,  and  approached  the  city 
nearly  from  that  direction.  Here,  instead  of  turning 
up  into  the  city,  he  could  easily  enough  strike  south  on 
the  valley  road,  perhaps  reaching  an  apparently  siza- 
ble village  called  Hung  Chan  by  night.' 

He  decided  to  do  that,  and  afterward  to  push  south- 
west. It  should  be  possible  to  find  a  way  out  along  the 
rivers  tributary  to  the  Yangtse,  reaching  that  mighty 
stream  at  either  Ichang  or  Hankow.  And  he  would 
work  diligently,  building  up  again  the  life  that  had 
been  so  quickly  and  lightly  overset.  At  least,  for  the 
time.  He  must  try  himself  out.  This  riding  his  emo- 
tions wouldn't  do.  At  some  stage  of  the  complicated 
experience  it  was  going  to  be  necessary  to  stop  and 
think.  Of  course,  if  he  should  find  after  a  reasonable 
time,  say  a  few  months,  that  the  emotion  persisted, 
why  then,  with  his  personal  freedom  established,  he 
might  write  Betty,  simply  stating  his  case. 

And  after  all  this,  on  the  following  afternoon,  dusty, 
tired  of  body  and  soul,  Jonathan  Brachey  rode  straight 
up  to  the  East  Gate  of  T'ainan- fu. 


CHAPTER  IX 

KNOTTED    LIVES 
1 

IF  Brachey  had  approached  that  East  Gate  a  year 
later  he  would  have  rolled  comfortably  into  the 
city  in  a  rickshaw  (which  has  followed  the  white  man 
into  China)  along  a  macadamized  road  bordered  by 
curbing  of  concrete  from  the  new  railway  station.  But 
in  the  spring  of  1907  there  was  no  station,  no  pave- 
ment, not  a  rickshaw.  The  road  was  a  deep-rutted 
way,  dusty  in  dry  weather,  muddy  in  wet,  bordered 
by  the  crumbling  shops  and  dwellings  found  on  the 
outskirts  of  every  Chinese  city.  A  high,  bumpy  little 
bridge  of  stone  spanned  the  moat. 

Over  this  bridge  rode  Brachey,  in  his  humble  cart, 
sitting  flat  under  a  span  of  tattered  matting,  sur- 
rounded and  backed  by  his  boxes  and  bales  of  food 
and  water  and  his  personal  baggage.  John  and  the 
cook  rode  behind  on  mules.  The  muleteers  walked. 

Under  the  gate  were  lounging  soldiers,  coolies,  beg- 
gars, and  a  money-changer  or  two  with  their  bags  of 
silver  lumps,  their  strings  of  copper  cash  and  their  bal- 
anced scales.  Two  of  the  soldiers  sprang  forward  and 
stopped  the  cart.  Despite  their  ragged  uniforms  (of 

151 


152  HILLS  OF  HAN 

a  dingy  blue,  of  course,  like  all  China,  and  capped  with 
blue  turbans)  these  were  tall,  alert  men.  Brachey  was 
rapidly  coming  to  recognize  the  Northern  Chinese  as  a 
larger,  browner,  more  vigorous  type  of  being  than  the 
soft  little  yellow  men  of  the  South  with  whom  he  had 
long  been  familiar  in  the  United  States  as  well  as  in 
the  East.  A  more  dangerous  man,  really,  this  north- 
erner. 

Brachey  leaned  back  on  his  baggage  and  watched 
the  little  encounter  between  his  John  and  the  two  sol- 
diers. Any  such  conversation  in  China  is  likely  to 
take  up  a  good  deal  of  time,  with  many  gestures,  much 
vehemence  of  speech  and  an  increasing  volume  of  in- 
terference from  the  inevitable  curious  crowd.  The  cook 
and  the  two  muleteers  joined  the  argument.  Brachey 
had  learned  before  the  first  evening  that  this  inter- 
preter of  his  had  no  English  beyond  the  few  pidgin 
phrases  common  to  all  speech  along  the  coast.  And 
since  leaving  Shau  T'ing  it  had  transpired  that  the 
man's  Tientsin-Peking  dialect  sounded  strange  in  the 
ears  of  Hansi.  John  was  now  in  the  position  of  an  in- 
terpreter who  could  make  headway  in  neither  of  the 
languages  in  which  he  was  supposed  to  deal.  Brachey 
didn't  mind.  It  kept  the  man  still.  And  he  had  learned 
years  earlier  that  the  small  affairs  of  routine  traveling 
can  be  managed  with  but  few  spoken  words.  But  just 
now,  idly  watching  the  little  scene,  he  would  have  liked 
to  know  what  it  meant. 

Finally  John  came  to  the  cart,  followed  by  shouts 
from  the  soldiers  and  the  crowd. 


KNOTTED  LIVES  153 

"Card  wanchee,"  he  managed  to  say. 

"Card?  No  savvy,"  said  Brachey. 

"Card,"  John  nodded  earnestly. 

Brachey  produced  his  personal  card,  bearing  his 
name  in  English  and  the  address  of  a  New  York  club. 

John  studied  it  anxiously,  and  then  passed  it  to  one 
of  the  soldiers.  That  official  fingered  it;  turned  it 
over ;  discussed  it  with  his  fellow.  Another  discussion 
followed. 

Brachey  now  lost  interest.  He  filled  and  lighted 
his  pipe;  then  drew  from  a  pocket  a  small  leather- 
bound  copy  of  The  Bible  in  Spain,  opened  at  a  book- 
mark, and  began  reading. 

There  was  a  wanderer  after  his  own  heart — George 
Borrow!  An  eager  adventurer,  at  home  in  any  city 
of  any  clime,  at  ease  in  any  company,  a  fellow  with 
gipsies,  bandits,  Arabs,  Jews  of  Gibraltar  and  Greeks 
of  Madrid,  known  from  Mogadore  to  Moscow.  Bor- 
row's  missionary  employment  puzzled  him  as  a  curious 
inconsistency;  his  skill  at  making  much  of  every  hu- 
man contact  was,  to  the  misanthropic  Brachey,  en- 
viable; his  genius  for  solitude,  his  self-sufficiency  in 
every  state,  w'hether  confined  in  prison  at  Madrid  or 
traversing  alone  the  dangerous  wilderness  of  Galicia, 
were  to  Brachey  points  of  fine  fellowship.  This  man 
needed  no  wife,  no  friend.  His  enthusiasm  for  the 
new  type  of  human  creature  or  the  unfamiliar  tongue 
never  weakened. 

The  cart  jolted,  creaking,  forward,  into  the  low  tun- 
nel that  served  as  a  gateway  through  the  massive 


154  HILLS  OF  HAN 

wall.  A  soldier  walked  on  either  hand.  Two  other 
soldiers  walked  in  the  rear.  The  crowd,  increasing 
every  moment,  trailed  off  behind.  Small  boys  jeered, 
even  threw  bits  of  dirt  and  stones,  one  of  which  struck 
a  soldier  and  caused  a  brief  diversion. 

They  creaked  on  through  the  narrow,  crowded 
streets  of  the  city.  A  murmur  ran  ahead  from  shop 
to  shop  and  corner  to  corner.  Porters,  swaying  un- 
der bending  bamboo,  shuffled  along  at  a  surprising  pace 
and  crowded  past.  Merchants  stood  in  doorways  and 
puffed  at  long  pipes  with  tiny  nickel  bowls  as  the 
strange  parade  went  by. 

Finally  it  stopped.  Two  great  studded  gates  swung 
inward,  and  the  cart  lurched  into  the  courtyard  of  an 
inn. 

Brachey  appropriated  a  room,  sent  John  for  hot 
water,  and  coolly  shaved.  Then  he  stretched  out  on 
the  folding  cot  above  its  square  of  matting,  refilled 
his  pipe  and  resumed  his  Borrow. 


Within  half  an  hour  fresh  soldiers  appeared,  armed 
with  carbines  and  revolvers,  and  settled  themselves 
comfortably,  two  of  them,  by  his  door;  two  others 
taking  up  a  position  at  the  compound  gate. 

They  brought  a  letter,  in  Chinese  characters,  on  red 
paper  in  a  buff  and  red  envelope,  which  Brachey  ex- 
amined with  curiosity. 


KNOTTED  LIVES  155 

"No  savvy,"  he  said. 

But  the  faithful  John,  inarticulate  from  confusion 
and  fright,  could  not  translate. 

Between  this  hour  in  mid-afternoon  and  early  even- 
ing, six  of  these  documents  were  passed  in  through 
Brachey's  door.  With  the  last  one,  John  appeared  to 
see  a  little  light. 

"Number  one  policeman  wanchee  know  pidgin  be- 
long you,"  he  explained  laboriously. 

That  would  doubtless  mean  the  police  minister.  So 
they  wanted  to  know  his  business !  But  as  matters 
stood,  with  no  other  medium  of  communication  than 
John's  patient  but  bewildered  brain,  explanation  would 
be  difficult.  Brachey  reached  for  his  book  and  read 
on.  Something  would  have  to  happen,  of  course.  It 
really  hardly  mattered  what.  He  even  felt  a  little  re- 
lief. The  authorities  might  settle  his  business  for 
him.  Pack  him  off.  It  would  be  better.  M.  Pourmont's 
letter  to  Griggsby  Doane  had  burned  in  his  pocket  for 
two  days.  It  had  seemed  to  press  him,  like  the  hand  of 
fate,  to  Betty's  very  roof.  Now,  since  he  had  become 
— the  simile  rose — a  passive  shuttlecock,  a  counterplay 
of  fate  might  prove  a  way  out  of  his  dilemma. 

He  had  chicken  fried  in  oil  for  his  dinner.  And 
John  ransacked  the  boxes  for  dainties;  as  if  the  oc- 
casion demanded  indulgence. 

At  eight  John  knocked  with  shaking  hands  at  his 
door.  It  was  dark  in  the  courtyard,  and  a  soft  April 
rain  was  falling.  Two  fresh  soldiers  stood  there,  each 


156  HILLS  OF  HAN 

with  carbine  on  back  and  a  lighted  paper  lantern  in 
hand.  A  boy  from  the  inn  held  two  closed  umbrellas 
of  oiled  paper. 

"Go  now,"  said  John,  out  of  a  dry  throat. 

"Go  what  side?"  asked  Brachey,  surveying  the  lit- 
tle group. 

John  could  not  answer. 

Brachey  compressed  his  lips;  stood  there,  knocking 
his  pipe  against  the  door-post.  Then,  finally,  he  put 
on  overcoat  and  rubber  overshoes,  took  one  of  the 
umbrellas,  and  set  forth. 


They  walked  a  long  way  through  twisting,  shadowy 
streets,  first  a  soldier  with  the  boy  from  the  inn,  then 
Brachey  under  his  umbrella,  then  John  under  another, 
then  the  second  soldier.  Dim  figures  brushed  past 
them.  Once  the  quaint  wailing  of  stringed  instru- 
ments floated  out  over  a  compound  wall.  They  passed 
through  a  dark  tunnel  that  must  have  been  one  of  the 
city  gates ;  then  on  through  other  streets. 

They  stopped  at  a  gate  house.  A  door  opened,  and 
yellow  lamplight  fell  warmly  across  the  way.  Brachey 
found  himself  stepping  up  into  a  structure  that  was 
and  yet  was  not  Chinese.  A  smiling  old  gate-keeper 
received  him  with  striking  courtesy,  and,  to  his  sur- 
prise, in  English. 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  sir?" 

John  and  the  soldiers  waited  in  the  gate  house. 


KNOTTED  LIVES  157 

Brachey  followed  the  old  man  across  a  paved  court. 
His  pulse  quickened.  Where  were  they  bringing  him  ? 

Through  a  window  he  saw  a  white  woman  sitting 
at  a  desk,  under  an  American  lamp. 

He  mounted  stone  steps,  left  his  coat  and  hat  in  a 
homelike  front  hall.  The  servant  led  the  way  up  a 
flight  of  carpeted  stairs. 

On  the  top  step,  Brachey  paused.  At  the  end  of  the 
corridor,  where  a  chair  or  two,  a  table,  bookcase,  and 
lamp  made  a  pleasant  little  lounge,  a  young  woman 
sat  quietly  reading.  She  looked  up ;  sat  very  still,  gaz- 
ing straight  at  him  out  of  a  white  face.  It  was  Betty. 
His  heart  seemed  to  stop. 

Then  a  man  stood  before  him.  A  little,  dusty  blond 
man.  They  were  clasping  hands.  He  was  ushered 
rather  abruptly  into  a  study.  The  door  closed. 

The  little  man  said  something  twice.  It  proved  to 
be,  "I  am  Mr.  Boatwright,"  and  he  was  looking  down 
at  the  much-thumbed  card ;  Brachey 's  own  card. 

Brachey  was  fighting  to  gather  his  wits.  Why 
hadn't  he  spoken  to  Betty,  or  she  to  him?  Would  she 
wait  there  to  see  him?  If  not,  how  could  he  reach 
her?  .  .  .  He  must  reach  her,  of  course.  He  knew 
now  that  through  all  his  confusion  of  mind  and  spirit 
he  had  come  straight  to  her. 


The   little   man   was   nervous,    Brachey   observed; 
even  jumpy.     He  hurried  about,  drawing  down  the 


158  HILLS  OF  HAN 

window-shades.  Then  he  sat  at  a  desk  and  with  twitch- 
ing fingers  rolled  a  pencil  about.  He  cleared  his  throat. 

"You've  come  in  from  the  railroad?"  he  asked. 
.  .  .  "Yes?  Do  you  bring  news?" 

"No,"  said  Brachey  coldly. 

"What  gossip  have  your  boys  picked  up  along  the 
road,  may  I  ask?" 

Back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  his  fingers  twitched 
the  pencil.  Brachey's  eyes  narrowly  followed  the 
movement.  After  a  little,  he  replied : 

"I  have  no  information  from  my  boys." 

"Seven  years  ago" — thus  Mr.  Boatwright,  huskily, 
"they  killed  all  but  a  few  of  us.  Now  the  trouble  has 
started  again — a  similar  trouble.  They  attacked  our 
station  up  at  So  T'ung  yesterday.  Mr.  Doane  is  on  his 
way  there  now.  He  left  this  noon.  That  is  why  they 
referred  your  case  to  me.  Oh,  yes,  I  should  have  told 
you — the  tao-tai,  Chang  Chih  Ting,  has  asked  me  to 
get  from  you  an  explanation  of  your  appearance  here 
without  a  passport.  But  perhaps  your  card  explains. 
You  come  simply  as  a  journalist?" 

Brachey  bowed. 

"You  have  no  connection  with  the  Ho  Shan  Com- 
pany ?" 

"None." 

"Chang  is  taking  up  your  case  this  evening  with  the 
provincial  judge,  Pao  Ting  Chuan.  Pao  is  to  give  you 
an  audience  to-morrow,  I  believe,  at  noon.  I  will  act 
as  your  interpreter."  Mr.  Boatwright  paused,  and 
sighed.  "I  am  very  busy." 


KNOTTED  LIVES  159 

"I  regret  this  intrusion  on  your  time,"  said  Brachey. 
It  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  more  than  barely  court- 
eous to  such  a  man  as  this. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Boatwright  replied  vaguely. 
"The  audience  will  probably  be  at  noon.  Then  you  will 
come  back  here  with  me  for  tiffin."  He  sighed  again; 
then  went  on.  "They  shot  one  of  Pourmont's  white 
men.  Through  the  lungs.  .  .  .  You  must  have 
seen  Pourmont  at  Ping  Yang,  as  you  came  through." 

"I  called  on  him." 

"Didn't  he  tell  you?" 

"No.  He  advised  against  my  coming  on." 

"Of  course.  It's  really  very  difficult.  He  wants  us 
all  to  get  out,  as  far  as  his  compound.  But,  you  see, 
our  predicament  is  delicate.  Already  they've  attacked 
one  of  our  outposts.  But  the  trouble  may  not  spread. 
We  can't  draw  in  our  people  and  leave  at  the  first  sign 
of  difficulty.  It  would  be  interpreted  as  weakness  not 
only  on  our  part  but  on  the  part  of  all  the  white  gov- 
ernments as  well.  Mr.  Doane,  I  know" — he  said  this 
rather  regretfully — "would  never  consent  to  that.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Doane  is  a  strong  man.  We  shall  all  breathe  a 
little  more  easily  when  he  is  safely  back.  If  he  should 
not  get  back — well,  you  will  see  that  I  must  face  this 
situation — the  decision  would  fall  on  me.  That's  why 
I  asked  you  for  news.  I  have  to  consider  the  problem 
from  every  angle.  We  have  other  stations  about  the 
province  and  we  must  plan  to  draw  all  our  people  in 
before  we  can  even  consider  a  general  retreat." 

Brachey  heard  part  of  this.    He  wished  the  man 


160  HILLS  OF  HAN 

would  keep  still:  His  own  racing  thoughts  were  with 
that  pale  girl  in  the  hall.  Was  she  still  there  ?  He  must 
plan.  He  must  be  prepared  with  something  to  say, 
if  they  should  meet  face  to  face. 

As  it  turned  out,  they  met  on  the  stairs.  Betty  was 
coming  up.  She  paused;  looked  up,  then  down.  The 
color  stole  back  into  her  face;  flooded  it.  She  raised 
her  hand,  hesitatingly. 

Brachey  heard  and  felt  the  surprise  of  Boatwright, 
behind  him.  The  little  man  said : 

"Oh!" 

Brachey  felt  the  warm  little  hand  in  his.  It  should 
have  been  easy  to  explain  their  acquaintance ;  to  speak 
of  the  ship,  ask  after  the  Hasmers.  In  the  event,  how- 
ever, it  proved  impossible,  all  he  could  say — he  heard 
the  dry  hard  tones  issuing  from  his  own  lips : 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do !  How  have  you  been  ?" 

Betty  said,  after  too  long  a  pause,  glancing  up  mo- 
mentarily at  Mr.  Boatwright : 

"Mr.  Brachey  was  on  the  steamer." 

It  was  odd,  that  little  situation.  It  might  so  easily 
have  escaped  being  a  situation,  had  not  their  own  tur- 
bulent hearts  made  it  so.  But  now,  of  course,  neither 
could  explain  why  they  hadn't  spoke  before  he  went 
into  the  study.  And  little,  distrait  Mr.  Boatwright 
was  wide-eyed. 

The  situation  passed  from  mildly  bad  to  a  little 
worse.  Betty  went  on  up  the  stairs ;  and  Brachey  went 
down. 

The  casual  parting  came  upon  Brachey  like  a  trag- 


The  color  stole  back  into  her  face 


KNOTTED  LIVES  161 

edy.  It  was  unthinkable.  Something  personal  he  must 
say.  On  the  morrow  it  might  be  worse,  with  a  whole 
household  crowding  about.  It  was  a  question  if  he 
could  face  her  at  all,'  that  way.  He  got  to  the  bottom 
step;  then,  with  an  apparently  offhand,  "I  beg  your 
pardon!"  brushed  past  the  now  openly  astonished 
Boatwright  and  bolted  back  up  the  stairs. 

Betty  moved  a  little  way  along  the  upper  hall ;  hesi- 
tated ;  glanced  back. 

He  spoke,  low,  in  her  ear.    "I  must  see  you!" 

Her  head  inclined  a  little. 

"Once!  I  must  see  you  once.  I  can't  kave  it  this 
way.  Then  I  will  go.  To-morrow — at  tiffin — if  we 
can't  talk  together — you  must  give  me  some  word. 
A  note,  perhaps,  telling  me  how  I  can  see  you  alone. 
There  is  one  thing  I  must  tell  you." 

"Please!"  she  murmured.  There  were  tears  in  her 
eyes.  They  scalded  his  own  high-beating  heart,  those 
tears. 

"You  will  plan  it?  I  am  helpless.  But  I  must  see 
you — tell  you!" 

He  thought  her  head  inclined  again. 

"You  will  ?    You'll  give  me  a  note  ?    Oh,  promise !" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered ;  and  slipped  away  into  another 
room. 

So  this  is  why  he  had  to  come  to  T'ainan-fu — to 
tell  her  the  tremendous  news  that  he  would  one  day 
be  free !  And  she  had  promised  to  arrange  a  meeting ! 

Never  in  all  his  cold  life  had  Jonathan  Brachey  ex- 
perienced such  a  thrill  as  followed  that  soft  "Yes." 


162  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Not  a  word  passed  between  him  and  Boatwright 
until  they  stood  in  the  gate  house.  Then,  for  an  in- 
stant, their  eyes  met.  He  had  to  fight  back  the  burn- 
ing triumph  that  was  in  his  own.  But  the  little  man 
seemed  glad  to  look  away ;  he  was  even  evasive. 

"You'd  better  be  around  about  half  past  eleven  in 
the  morning,"  said  he.  "We'll  go  to  the  yamen  from 
here.  We  must  have  blue  carts  and  the  extra  servants. 
Good  night."  And  again  he  sighed. 

That  was  all.  Boatwright  let  him  go  like  that,  back 
to  the  dirty,  dangerous  native  inn. 

He  fell  in  behind  the  leading  soldier,  holding  his 
umbrella  high  and  marching  stiffly,  like  a  conqueror, 
through  the  sucking  mud. 


CHAPTER  X 

•RANITE 

1 

BETTY  did  not  get  down  for  breakfast  in  the  morn- 
ing.   And  Mrs.  Boatwright  sent  nothing  up. 

It  was  close  upon  noon  when  Betty,  sketching  port- 
folio under  arm,  came  slowly  down  the  stairs.  Mrs, 
Boatwright,  at  her  desk  in  the  front  room,  glanced  up, 
called : 

"Oh,  Betty— just  a  moment!" 

The  girl  stood  in  the  doorway.  She  looked  so  slim 
and  small  and,  even,  childlike,  that  the  older  woman, 
to  whom  responsibility  for 'all  things  and  persons  about 
her  was  a  habit,  knit  her  heavy  brows  slightly.  What 
on  earth  were  you  to  do  with  the  child?  What  had 
Griggsby  Doane  been  thinking  of  in  bringing  her  out 
here?  Anything,  almost,  would  have  been  better. 
And  just  now,  of  all  times ! 

"Would  you  mind  coming  in?  There's  a  question 
or  two  I'd  like  to  ask  you." 

Betty  paused  by  a  rocking  chair  of  black  walnut 
that  was  upholstered  in  crimson  plush;  fingered  the 
crimson  fringe.  Mrs.  Boatwright  was  marking  out  a 
geometrical  pattern  on  the  back  of  an  enyelopt; 
frowning  down  at  it.  The  silence  grew  heayy. 

163 


164  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Finally  Mrs.  Boatwright,  never  light  of  hand,  came 
out  with : 

"This  Mr.  Brachey— who  is  he?" 

Betty's  fringed  lids  moved  swiftly  up ;  dropped  again. 

"He — he's  a  writer,  a  journalist." 

"You  knew  him  on  the  ship?" 

"Yes." 

"You  knew  him  pretty  well  ?" 

"I — saw  something  of  him." 

"Do  you  know  why  he  came  out  here?" 

Betty  was  silent. 

"Do  you  know?" 

"I  should  think  you  would  ask  him." 

Mrs.  Boatwright  considered  this.  The  girl  was  self- 
conscious,  a  little.  And  quietly — very  quietly — hos- 
tile. Qr  perhaps  merely  on  the  defensive. 

"Then  you  do  know?" 

"No,"  replied  Betty,  with  that  same  very  quiet 
gravity,  "I  can't  say  that  I  do.  He  is  studying  China, 
of  course.  He  came  from  America  to  do  that,  I  under- 
stand." 

"Did  you  know  he  was  coming  out  here?" 

Betty  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"Have  you  been  corresponding  with  him  ?" 

Another  silence.  Then  this  from  Betty,  without 
heat: 

"I  don't  understand  why  you  are  asking  these  ques- 
tions." 

"Are  you  unwilling  to  answer  them?" 

"Such  personal  questions  as  that  last  one — yes." 


GRANITE  165 

"Why?" 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  it." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Boatwright  considered.  "Hmm!" 
She  controlled  her  temper  and  framed  her  next  remark 
with  care.  This  slip  of  a  girl  was  unexpectedly  in 
fiber  like  Griggsby  Doane.  There  was  no  weakness 
in  her  quiet  resistance,  no  yielding.  Perhaps  she  was 
strong,  after  all.  Though  she  looked  soft  enough; 
gentle  like  her  mother.  Perhaps,  even,  she  was  a  per- 
son, of  herself.  This  was  a  new  thought.  Mrs.  Boat- 
wright drew  a  parallelogram,  then  painstakingly  shaded 
the  lines. 

"We  mustn't  misunderstand  each  other,  Betty,"  she 
said.  '/In  your  father's  absence,  I  am  responsible  for 
you.  This  man  has  appeared  rather  mysteriously. 
His  business  is  not  clear.  The  tao-tai  asked  Mr.  Boat- 
wright to  look  him  up,  for  it  seems  he  hasn't  even  an 
interpreter.  He  has  just  been  here.  They've  gone  for 
an  audience  with  the  provincial  judge.  Mr.  Boatwright 
has  asked  him  to  come  back  here  for  tiffin.  Which  was 
rather  impulsive,  I'm  afraid.  .  .  ."  She  paused; 
started  outlining  an  octagon.  "I  may  as  well  come  out 
with  it.  Mr.  Boatwright  told  me  a  little  of  what  hap- 
pened last  evening — : 

"Of  what  happened    But  nothing — " 

"If  you  please !  Mr.  Boatwright  is  not  a  particularly 
observant  man  in  these  matters,  but  he  couldn't  help 
seeing  that  there  is  something  between  you  and  this 
Mr.  Brachey.  .  .  .  Now,  since  you  see  what  is  in 
my  mind,  will  you  tell  me  why  he  is  here  ?" 


166  HILLS  OF  HAN 

During  this  speech  Betty  stopped  fingering  the  crim- 
son fringe.  She  stood  motionless,  holding  the  port- 
folio still  against  her  side.  A  slow  color  crept  into  her 
cheeks.  She  wouldn't,  or  couldn't,  speak. 

"Very  well,  if  you  won't  answer  that  question,  will 
you  at  least  tell  me  something  of  what  you  do  know 
about  him?" 

"I  know  very  little  about  him,"  said  Betty  now,  in 
a  low  but  clear  voice,  without  emphasis. 

"I  must  try  to  make  you  understand  this,  my  dear. 
Here  the  man  is.  Within  the  hour  we  are  to  sit  down 
at  tiffin  with  him.  It  is  growing  clearer  erery  minute 
that  Mr.  Boatwright's  suspicion  was  correct — " 

"You  have  no  right  to  use  that  word !" 

"Well,  then,  his  surmise,  say.  There  is  something 
between  you  and  this  man.  Don't  you  think  you'd 
better  tell  me  what  it  is  ?" 

**There  is  nothing — nothing  at  all — that  I  need  tell 
you." 

"Is  there  nothing  that  you  ought  to  tell  jour  fa- 
ther?" 

"You  can  not  speak  for  him." 

"I  stand  in  his  place,  while  he  is  away.  It  is  a  re- 
sponsibility I  must  accept  You  say  you  know  rery 
little  about  the  man?" 

Betty  bowed. 

"You  met  him  on  the  ship,  by  chance  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  any  of  his  friends  ?" 

"No." 


GRANITE  167 

"Anything  of  his  past?" 

Betty  hesitated.  Then,  as  the  woman  glanced  keenly 
up,  she  replied: 

"Only  what  he  has  told  me." 

"Do  you  know,  even,  whether  he  is  a  married  man?" 

Another  long  silence  fell.  Betty  stood  as  quietly 
as  before,  looking  out  of  frank  brown  eyes  at  the 
sunlit  courtyard  and  the  gate  house  beyond  where  old 
Sun  Shao-i,  seated  on  a  stool,  was  having  the  inside 
of  his  eyelids  scraped  by  an  itinerant  barber. 

"Yes,"  Betty  replied. 

"You  mean— ?" 

"I  know  that  he  is  married." 


Betty,  as  she  threw  out  this  bit  of  uncompromising 
truth,  was  stirred  with  a  thrill  of  wilder  adventure 
than  had  hitherto  entered  her  somewhat  untrammeled 
young  life.  The  situation  had  outrun  her  experience; 
she  was  acting  on  instinct.  There  was  a  sense  of  shock, 
too;  and  of  hurt — hurt  that  Mrs.  Boatwright  could 
look,  feel,  so  forbidding.  Her  firm  face,  now  pressed 
together  from  chin  to  forehead,  wrinkled  across, 
squinting  unutterable  suspicions,  stirred  a  resistance 
in  Betty's  breast  that  for  a  little  time  flared  into  anger. 

There  was  no  telling  what  Mrs.  Boatwright  felt. 
Her  frown  even  relaxed,  after  a  moment.  The  out- 
break of  moral  superiority  that  Betty  looked  for 
didn't  come.  Instead  she  said : 


168  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"How  did  you  learn  this  ?" 

"He  told  me." 

"Oh,  he  told  you?" 

"Well,  he  wrote  a  letter  before  he — wc»t  away." 

"Oh,  he  went  away!" 

"Yes.  He  went.  Without  a  word.  I  didn't  know 
where  he  was." 

"When  was  that?" 

"When  we  landed  at  Shanghai." 

"Hardly  three  weeks  ago.  He's  here  now.  Tell  me 
— he  wouldn't  have  gone  off  like  that,  of  course,  leav- 
ing such  an  intimate  letter,  unless  a  pretty  definite  sit- 
uation had  arisen." 

Betty  was  silent. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  it  was?" 

"No." 

"Then — I  really  have  a  right  to  ask  this  of  you — 
will  you  give  me  your  word  not  to  see  him  until  your 
father  returns,  and  then  not  until  you  have  laid  it  be- 
fore him  ?" 

Silence  again.  The  fringed  lids  fluttered.  A  small 
hand  reached  for  the  crimson  fringe,  slim  fingers  clung 
there. 

Betty's  thoughts  were  running  away.  She  felt  the 
situation  now  as  a  form  of  torture.  That  grim  ex- 
perienced woman  must  be  partly  right,  of  course; 
Betty  was  still  so  young  as  to  defer  mechanically  to  her 
elders,  and  she  had  no  great  opinion  of  herself,  of  her 
strength  of  character  or  her  judgment.  She  thought 
of  the  boys  at  home,  who  had  been  fond  »f  her. 


GRANITE  169 

.  .  .  She  thought  of  Harold  Apgar,  over  there  in 
Korea.  He  was  clean,  likable,  prosperous;  and  he 
wanted  to  marry  her.  It  really  would  solve  her  prob- 
lems, could  she  only  feel  toward  him  so  much  as  a 
faint  reflection  of  the  glow  that  Jonathan  Brachey 
had  aroused  in  her.  But  nothing  in  her  nature  an- 
swered Harold  Apgar.  For  that  matter — and  this  was 
the  deeply  confusing  thing — she  could  not  formulate 
her  feeling  for  Brachey.  She  couldn't  admit  that  she 
loved  him.  The  thought  of  giving  her  life  into  his 
keeping — one  day,  should  he  come  to  her  with  clean 
hands ;  should  he  ask — was  not  to  be  entertained  at  all. 
But  she  couldn't  think  of  him  without  excitement ;  and 
that  excitement,  last  night  and  to-day,  was  the  dom- 
inant fact  in  her  life.  She  had  no  plans  in  which  he 
figured.  She  was  vaguely  bent  on  forgetting  him. 
During  the  night  she  had  regretted  her  promise  to  meet 
him  once  more  alone.  Yet  she  had  given  that  promise. 
Given  the  same  situation  she  would — she  knew  with  a 
touch  of  bewilderment  that  this  was  so — promise 
again. 

Betty  looked  appealingly  at  Mr.  Boatwright.  Then, 
meeting  with  no  sympathy,  she  drew  up  her  little  fig- 
ure. 

"You  said  he  was  coming  here  for  tiffin,  Mrs.  Boat- 
wright ?" 

"Yes."  The  woman  glanced  out  at  the  courtyard. 
"Any  moment." 

"Then  I  shan't  come  into  the  dining-room."  And 
Betty  turned  to  leave  the  room. 


170  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Just  a  moment !  Am  I  to  take  that  as  an  answer  ? 
Are  you  promising?" 

Betty  turned ;  hesitated ;  then,  suddenly,  impulsively, 
came  across  the  room. 

"Mrs.  Boatwright,"  she  said  unsteadily — her  eyes 
were  filling — "would  it  do  any  good  for  me  to  talk 
right  out  with  you?  Probably  I  do  need  advice." 
She  faltered  momentarily,  shocked  by  the  expression 
on  that  nearly  square  face.  "Oh,  it  isn't  a  terribly  se- 
rious situation.  It  really  isn't.  But  that  man  is  hon- 
est. He  has  led  an  unhappy,  solitary  life.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  died  out. 

"Bat  you  said  he  was  married!"  cried  Mrs.  Boat- 
wright explosively. 

"Yes,  but— " 

'"But!   But!'  Child,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

There  was  nothing  in  Betty's  experience  of  life  that 
could  interpret  to  her  mind  such  a  point  of  riew  as 
that  really  held  by  the  woman  before  her.  She 
had  no  means  of  knowing  that  they  were  speaking 
across  a  gulf  wider  and  deeper  perhaps  than  has  ever 
before  existed  between  two  generations ;  and  that  each 
of  them,  quite  unconsciously,  was  an  extreme  example 
of  her  type.  She  turned  again. 

It  was  a  commotion  out  at  the  gate  house  that  ar- 
rested her  this  time.  She  felt  that  curious  excitement 
rising  up  in  her  heart  and  brain.  Old  Sun  was  spring- 
ing up  from  the  barber's  stool,  with  his  always  great 
dignity  brushing  that  public  servitor  aside.  Then 
Brachey  appeared/ followed  by  Mr.  Boatwright. 


GRANITE  171 

The  wife  of  that  little  man  now  caught  the  look  on 
Betty's  face,  the  sudden  light  in  her  eyes,  and  rose, 
alarmed,  to  her  feet. 

Taking  in  the  situation,  she  said : 
"I  shall  send  something  up  to  your  room." 
Betty  moved  her  head  wanly  in  the  negative.     It 
was  no  use  explaining  to  this  woman  that  she  couldn't 
think  of  food.     She  moved  slowly  toward  the  door. 
She  was  unexpectedly  tired. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  the  older  woman 
shortly. 

"I've  got  to  be  by  myself,"  said  Betty,  apparently 
less  resentful  now.  It  was  more  a  rather  faint  state- 
ment of  fact.  And  she  went  on  out,  not  so  much 
as  answering  Mrs.  Boatwright's  final  "But  you  will  not 
promise?"  It  wasn't  even  certain  that  she  heard. 


Mrs.  Boatwright  stood  thinking.  Betty  had  run  up 
the  stairs.  The  two  men  were  coming  slowly  across 
the  courtyard,  talking.  Or  her  husband  was  talking; 
she  could  hear  his  light  voice.  The  other  man  was 
silent ;  a  gloomy  figure  in  knickerbockers.  She  studied 
him.  Already  he  was  catalogued  in  her  mind,  and 
permanently.  For  nothing  that  might  happen  to  pre- 
sent Brachey  in  another  light  could  ever,  now,  shake 
her  judgment  of  him.  No  new  evidence  of  abil- 
ity or  integrity  in  the  man  or  of  genuine  misfortune 
in  marriage,  would  influence  her.  No  play  of  sym- 


172  HILLS  OF  HAN 

pathy,  no  tolerant  reflectiveness,  would  for  a  moment 
occupy  her  mind.  She  was  a  New  Englander,  with 
the  old  non-conformist  British  insistence  on  conduct 
and  duty  bred  in  her  bone.  Her  emotional  nature  was 
almost  the  granite  of  her  native  hills.  And  she  was 
strong  as  that  granite.  She  feared  nothing,  shrank 
from  nothing,  that  could  be  classified  as  duty.  No 
Latin  flexibility  ever  softened  her  vigorous  expression 
of  independent  thought.  Her  duty,  now,  was  clear. 

She  went  out  into  the  hall  and  opened  the  door. 

The  two  men  were  just  mounting  the  steps. 

"My  dear,"  began  her  husband,  sensing  her  mood, 
glancing  up  apprehensively,  "this  is  Mr.  Brachey. 
He—" 

"Yes,"  said  she,  standing  squarely  in  the  doorway, 
"I  understand.  Mr.  Brachey,  I  can  not  receive  you 
in  this  house.  You,  of  course,  know  why.  I  must  ask 
yon  to  go  at  once." 

Then  she  simply  waited ;  commandingly.  From  her 
eyes  blazed  honest,  invincible  anger. 

Mr.  Boatwright  caught  his  breath ;  stood  motionless, 
very  white;  finally  murmured: 

"But,  my  dear,  I'm  sure  you    .    .    ." 

His  wife  merely  glanced  at  him. 

Brachey  stood  as  she  had  caught  him,  on  the  steps, 
one  foot  above  the  other.  His  face  was  expression- 
less. His  eyes  fastened  on  the  woman  a  gaze  that 
might  have  meant  no  more  than  cold  curiosity,  grow- 
ing slowly  into  contempt.  Then,  after  a  moment,  as 
quietly,  he  turned  and  descended  the  steps. 


GRANITE  173 

Boatwright  caught  his  arm. 

"Really,  Mr.  Brachey— " 

"Elmer!"  cried  his  wife  shortly.     "Let  him  goT 

But  Brachey  had  already  shaken  off  the  detaining 
hand.  He  marched  straight  across  the  court,  stepped 
into  the  gate  house,  and  disappeared. 

Betty,  all  hurt  confusion,  had  lingered  in  the  second 
floor  hall.  At  the  first  sound  of  Mrs.  Boatwright's 
firm  voice,  she  stepped,  her  brain  a  tangle  of  little  in- 
decisions, to  the  stair  rail. 

She  ran  lightly  to  the  front  window  and  watched 
Jonathan  Brachey  as  he  walked  away.  Then  she  shut 
herself  in  her  own  room,  telling  herself  that  the  time 
had  come  to  think  it  all  out.  But  she  couldn't  think. 

Against  the  granite  in  Mrs.  Boatwright  Betty,  who 
understood  herself  not  at  all,  had  to  set  a  quick  strong 
impulsiveness  that  was  certain,  given  a  little  time,  to 
work  out  in  positive  act.  Very  little  time  indeed  now 
intervened  between  impulse  and  act.  She  scribbled  a 
note,  in  pencil : 

"DEAR  MR.  BRACHEY — I  am  going  out  to  sketch  i» 
the  tennis  court.  You  can  reach  it  by  the  little  side 
street  just  beyond  our  gate  house  as  you  come  front 
the  city.  Please  do  come ! — BETTY  D." 

She  went  down  the  stairs  again,  portfolio  wider 
arm,  and  on  to  the  gate  house.  Sun,  as  she  had 
thought,  knew  at  which  inn  the  white  gentleman  was 
stopping,  and  at  Miss  Doane's  request  sent  a  boy  with 
the  chit. 


CHAPTER  XI 

EMOTION 

BRACHEY  came  suddenly  into  view,  around  the 
corner  of  the  wall  from  the  little  side  street. 

He  was  dressed  almost  stiffly — not  in  knickerbockers 
now,  but  in  what  would  be  called  at  home  a  business 
suit,  with  stiff  white  collar  and  a  soft  but  correct  hat ; 
and  he  carried  a  stick — like  an  Englishman,  Betty 
thought,  careful  to  the  last  of  appearances.  As  if  there 
were  no  such  thing  as  danger;  only  stability.  She 
might  have  been  back  in  the  comfortable  New  Jersey 
town  and  he  a  casual  caller.  And  then,  after  taking 
him  in,  in  a  quick  conflict  of  moods  that  left  her 
breathless,  she  glanced  hurriedly  about.  But  only  the 
blank  compound  wall  met  her  gaze,  and  tile  roofs,  with 
the  chimneys  of  the  higher  mission  house  peeping 
aboye  foliage.  The  gate  was  but  a  narrow  opening, 
near  the  farther  end  of  the  tennis  court.  No  one  could 
see.  For  that  matter,  it  was  to  be  doubted  that  any  one 
in  the  compound  knew  she  was  here.  And  beyond  the 
little  street  stood  another  blank  wall.  .  .  .  And  he 
had  come! 

She  could  not  know  that  she  seemed  very  composed 
as  she  laid  her  portfolio  on  the  camp  stool  and  rose. 
Then  her  hand  was  in  his.  Her  voice  said : 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  come.    But — " 
174 


EMOTION  175 

"When  I  asked  for  a  meeting — for  one  meeting 
.  .  .  ."  Her  eyes  were  down;  he  was  set,  as  for  a 
formal  speech.  .  .  .  "It  was,  as  you  may  imagine, 
because  a  matter  has  arisen  that  seems  to  me  of  the 
greatest  importance." 

She  wondered  what  made  him  talk  like  that.  As  if 
determined  to  appeal  to  her  mind.  She  couldn't  lis- 
ten ;  not  with  her  mind ;  she  was  all  feeling.  He  was 
a  stranger,  this  man.  Yet  she  had  thought  tenderly 
of  him.  It  was  difficult. 

"You  didn't  come  alone?"  she  asked,  unaware  that 
her  manner,  too,  was  formal. 

"Yes.    Oh,  yes !  I  know  the  way." 

"But  it  isn't  safe.  When  I  wrote  ...  I  heard 
what  Mrs.  Boatwright  said.  I  was  angry." 

"She  was  very  rude." 

"It  seemed  as  if  I  ought  to  get  word  to  you — after 
that.  I  promised,  of  course." 

"But  your  note  surprised  me." 

"You  thought  I  wouldn't  keep  my  promise?" 

"I  wasn't  sure  that  you  could." 

"If  you  hadn't  heard  from  me,  what  would  you 
have  done?" 

"I  should  have  left  T'ainan  this  afternoon." 

"But  how  could  you  ?    Where  could  you  go  ?" 

"The  provincial  judge  has  assigned  four  soldiers  to 
me.  He  was  most  courteous.  He  wants  me  to  publish 
articles  in  America  and  England  against  the  Ho  Shan 
Company.  He  seems  a  very  astute  man.  And  he  sent 
runners  to  the  inn  just  now  with  presents." 


176  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Oh— what  were  they?" 

"Some  old  tins  of  sauerkraut.  A  German  traveler 
must  have  left  them  here." 

Betty  smiled.     Then,  sober  again,  said : 

"But  you  should  have  brought  the  soldiers  with, 
you." 

"Oh,  no.    I  preferred  being  alone." 

"But  I  don't  think  you  understand.  It  isn't  safe  to 
go  about  alone  now.  Not  if  you're  a  white  man.  I 
don't  like  to  think  that  I've  put  you  in  danger." 

"You  haven't.  It  doesn't  matter.  As  I  was  about 
to  tell  you  .  .  .  you  must  understand  that  I  assume 
no  interest  on  your  part — I  can't  do  that,  of  course — 
but  after  what  happened,  that  night  on  the  ship  .  .  ." 

He  was  having  difficulty  with  this  set  speech  of  his. 
Betty  averted  her  face  to  hide  the  warm  color  that 
came.  Why  on  earth  need  he  come  out  with  it  so 
heavily!  Whatever  had  happened  had  happened,  that 
was  all!  .  .  .  His  voice  was  going  on.  Something 
about  a  divorce.  He  was  to  be  free  shortly.  He  said 
that.  He  sounded  almost  cold  about  it,  deliberate. 
And  he  had  come  clear  out  here  to  T'ainan  just  to  say 
that.  He  was  assuming,  of  course.  To  a  painful  de- 
gree. He  seemed  to  feel  that  he  owed  it  to  her  to 
make  some  sort  of  payment  .  .  .  for  kissing  her 
.  .  .  and  the  payment,  apparently,  was  to  be  himself. 
She  was  moved  by  a  little  wave  of  anger.  She  man- 
aged to  say: 

"We  won't  talk  about  that." 

"I  felt  that  I  must  tell  you.   I'll  go  now,  of  course." 


EMOTION  177 

"But    .    .    ." 

"As  soon  as  I  am  free  I  shall  write  you.  I  will  ask 
you,  then,  to  be  my  wife." 

He  drew  himself  up,  at  this,  stiffly. 

Betty's  blush  was  a  flush  now.  She  gathered  up  her 
drawing  things;  deliberately  arranged  the  sheets  of 
paper  in  the  portfolio. 

"I  shall  say  good-by.    .    .    ." 

"Wait,"  said  Betty,  rather  shortly,  not  looking  up. 
"You  mustn't  go  like  this." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then,  abruptly,  he  broke 
out: 

"There  is  no  way  that  I  can  stay.  I  would  bring 
you  only  trouble.  And  it  will  be  easier  for  me  to  go. 
Of  course,  I  should  never  have  come.  It  has  been 
very  upsetting,  I  haven't  faced  it  honestly.  I  wanted 
to  forget  you.  I've  been  tortured.  And  then  I  learned 
that  you  were  in  danger.  I — can't  talk  about  it !" 
And  he  clampe'd  his  lips  shut. 

Betty  opened  her  portfolio  and  slowly  fingered  the 
sheets  of  drawing  paper.  Her  eyes  filled;  she  had  to 
keep  them  down. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Her  voice  was  no  more 
than  a  murmur.  She  said  it  again,  a  little  louder: 
"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Back  to  the  inn.    And  then,  perhaps — " 

"You  mustn't  leave  T'ainan." 

"That  is  the  difficulty.  I  couldn't  save  myself  and 
leave  you  here." 

"On  your  account,  I  mean.     We're  safe  enough. 


17$  HILLS  OF  HAN 

I've  heard  them  talking  at  the  house.  Pao  will  protect 
us.  And  Chang,  the  tao-tai.  But  if  you  were  to  go 
out  alone — on  the  highway — ' 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing.     I  have  soldiers." 

"You  said  four  soldiers.  Father  was  attacked  right 
here  in  the  city,  with  Chang  and  his  body-guard  de- 
fending him.  They  even  tore  Chang's  clothes." 

"I  don't  care  about  myself,"  said  he. 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  She  knew  he  spoke  the 
truth,  however  bitter  his  spirit.  He  was  talking  on : 

"Don't  misunderstand  me.    .    .    ." 

"I  don't." 

"This  journey  has  been  a  time  of  painful  self-rev- 
elation. I  used  to  think  myself  strong.  That  was 
absurd,  of  course.  I  am  very  weak.  In  this  new  trou- 
ble my  will  seems  to  have  broken  down.  Yes,  it  has 
broken  down ;  I  may  as  well  admit  it.  I  had  no  right 
to  fall  in  love  with  you.  Already  I  have  injured  the 
life  of  one  woman.  Now,  by  merely  coming  out  here 
in  this  ill-considered  way,  I  am  injuring  yours.  .  .  . 
The  worst  of  it  is  these  moments  of  terrible  feeling. 
Thej  make  it  impossible  for  me  to  reason.  At  one  time 
I  can  really  believe  that  a  fatal  accident  out  here — an 
accident  to  myself — would  be  the  best  thing  that  could 
happen  for  everybody  concerned;  but  then,  in  a  mo- 
ment, I  become  inflamed  with  feeling,  and  desire,  and 
a  perfectly  unreasonable  hope." 

"I  wonder,"  mused  Betty,  moved  now  by  something 
near  a  thrill  of  power — a  disturbing  sort  of  power — 
"if  love  is  like  that." 


EMOTION  179 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  even  know  if  this  is  love. 
Part  of  the  time  I  resent  you." 

"Oh !    .    .    .    Well — yes,  I  can  understand  that." 

"Then  you  resent  me?" 

"Sometimes." 

"In  my  lucid  moments  I  see  the  thing  clearly  enough. 
It  is  simply  an  impossible  situation.  And  I  have  added 
the  final  touch  by  coming  out  here."  He  seated  him- 
self on  a  block  of  stone,  and  rested  his  chin  moodily 
on  his  two  hands.  "That  is  what  disturbs  me — it 
frightens  me.  I  have  watched  other  men  and  women 
going  through  this  queer  confusion  we  call  falling  in 
love.  I've  pitied  them.  They  were  weak,  helpless, 
surrendering  the  reasoning  faculty  to  sheer  emotion. 
Sometimes,  I've  thought  of  them  as  creatures  caught 
in  a  net." 

"Oh!"  Betty  breathed  softly,  "I've  never  thought 
...  I  wonder  if  it  is  like  that." 

"It  is  with  me.  I  see  no  happiness  in  it.  I  hope 
yon  will  never  have  to  live  through  what  FTC  lired 
through  these  past  few  weeks.  And  now  I  sit  here — 
weakly — knowing  I  ought  to  go  at  once  and  never  dis- 
turb you  again.  But  the  thought  of  going — of  saying 
good-by — is  terrible.  It's  one  more  thing  I  seem  un- 
able to  face." 

Betty  was  struggling  now  against  tumultuous 
thoughts.  And  without  overcoming  them,  without 
rren  making  headway  against  them,  she  spoke : 

"I  can't  let  you  take  all  this  on  yourself.  I  must 
have — well,  made  it  hard  for  you,  there  on  the  thip. 


180  HILLS  OF  HAN 

/ 
I  enjoyed  being  with  you.    I    ..."    This  was  all  she 

could  say  about  that. 

There  was  a  long,  long  silence. 

Suddenly,  with  an  inarticulate  exclamation,  he 
sprang  up. 

Startled,  all  impulses,  she  caught  his  hand.  His 
fingers  tightened  about  hers. 

"What?"  she  asked,  breathless. 

"I'll  go." 

"Not  away  from  T'ainan?" 

"Yes.  It's  the  only  thing.  After  all,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter much  what  happens  to  any  individual.  We've  got 
to  take  that  chance.  When  my — when  I'm — free,  if 
I'm  alive,  and  you're  alive,  I'll  write  you.  I  won't 
come — I'll  write.  Meanwhile,  you  can  make  up  your 
mind.  All  I'll  ask  of  you  then  is  a  decision.  I'll  ac- 
cept it." 

Her  ringers  were  twisting  around  his.  She  couldn't 
look  up  at  him,  nor  he  down  at  her. 

"When  shall  you  leave  T'ainan?" 

"Now — this  afternoon." 

"No." 

"But    .    .    .    don't  you  see?    .    .    ." 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say." 

He  knelt  beside  her. 

"You  dear  child!"  he  murmured  unsteadily,  "can't 
you  see  what  a  trouble  we're  in?  It's  my  fault — " 

"It's  no  more  your  fault  than  mine." 

"Oh,  but  it  is!  I'm  an  experienced  man.  You're 
a  girl.  They're  right  in  blaming  me." 


EMOTION  181 

"People  can't  help  their  feelings." 

"God,  if  they  could!  Don't  you  see,  child,  that  I 
can't  stay  near  you?  I  can't  look  at  you — you're  so 
little,  so  pretty,  so  charming !  When  I'm  with  you,  all 
this  feeling,  all  the  warm  feminine  quality,  all  the 
beautiful  magic  that's  been  shut  out  of  my  life  comes 
to  me  through  you.  It  drives  me  crazy.  .  .  .  Betty, 
God  forgive  me !  I  can't  help  it — this  once !  It's 
good-by."  He  took  her  lightly,  reverently,  in  his  arms, 
and  brushed  his  lips  against  her  forehead.  Then  he 
arose. 

"Good-by,  Betty !" 

"It's  too  late  to  start  to-day.  You  can't  travel  Chi- 
nese roads  at  night." 

"I'll  start  early  in  the  morning." 

"I'll — if  you — I'll  come  out  here  this  evening.  I 
think  I  can." 

"Oh— Betty!    .    .    ." 

"It  may  be  a  little  late.  Perhaps  about  half  past 
eight.  They'll  all  be  busy  then.  .  .  .  Just  for  a  little 
while." 

He  considered  this.  "It's  wrong,"  he  said.  "But 
what's  the  good  of  my  deciding  not  to  come.  Of 
course  I  will." 

"You  came  clear  to  T'ainan." 

"I  know.    .    .    ." 

"And  how  about  me !"  she  broke  out.  "I'm  shut  in 
a  prison  here.  You're  the  only  friend  that's  come — 
the  only  person  I  can  talk  with.  Father  is  wonderful, 
but  he's  busy  and  worried,  and  I'm  his  daughter,  and 


182  HILLS  OF  HAN 

we  can't  talk  much.  And  you  and  I— if  you're  going 
in  the  morning— we  can't  leave  things— our  very 
lives" — her  voice  wavered — "like  this." 

"I'll  come,"  he  said. 

"And  keep  the  soldiers  with  you  " 

"I'll  come." 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  like  a  net,"  said  she. 


CHAPTER  XII 


CHINA,  in  its  vastness,  its  mystery,  its  perma- 
nence, its  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow  of  myriad,  un- 
counted life,  suggests  the  ocean.  The  surface  is  rest- 
less, rippled  by  universal  family  discord,  whipped  by 
gusts  of  passion  from  tong  or  tribe,  upheaved  by  po- 
litical storms,  but  everywhere  in  the  unsounded  depths 
lies  the  peace  of  submissiveness.  Within  its  boun- 
daries breathes  sufficient  power  to  overwhelm  the 
world,  yet  only  on  the  self-conscious  surface  is  this 
power  sensed  and  slightly  used.  Chinese  life,  in  city 
and  village,  as  in  the  teeming  countryside,  moves  in 
disorganized  poverty  about  its  laborious  daily  tasks, 
little  more  aware  of  the  surface  political  currents  than 
are  Crustacea  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  of  ships  pass- 
ing overhead ;  while  to  these  patient  minds  the  mighty 
adventure  of  the  Western  World  is  no  more  than  a 
breath  upon  the  waters. 

This  simile  found  a  place  among  the  darker  thoughts 
of  Griggsby  Doane  as  he  tramped  down  into  the  fer- 
tile valley  of  the  Han.  Behind  him  lay  tragedy;  yet 
on  every  hand  the  farmers  were  at  work  upon  the  nar- 

183 


184  HILLS  OF  HAN 

row  holdings  that  terraced  the  red  hills  to  their  sum- 
mits. At  each  countryside  well  the  half-naked  coolies 
— two,  three,  or  four  of  them — were  turning  wind- 
lasses and  emptying  buckets  of  water  into  stone 
troughs  from  which  trickled  little  painstakingly  meas- 
ured streams  to  the  sunbaked  furrow  of  this  or 
that  or  another  field.  The  trains  of  asses  and  camels 
wound  ceaselessly  up  and  down  the  road  that  led 
from  the  northern  hills  to  T'ainan.  The  roadside 
vendors  and  beggars  chanted  their  wares  and  their 
grievances.  The  villages,  always  indolent,  lived  on 
exactly  as  always,  stirred  only  by  noisy  bargains  or 
other  trivial  excitement.  The  naked  children  tumbled 
about.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  here  could  be — had 
so  lately  been — violence  and  cruelty.  It  was  simply 
one  of  the  occasions,  evidently,  when  no  Lookers  or 
hostile  young  men  happened  to  be  about  to  shout  their 
familiar  taunts  at  the  white  devil.  Though  the  fight- 
ing of  1900,  for  that  matter,  had  passed  like  a  wave, 
leaving  hardly  more  trace.  Still  more,  at  dusk,  the  out- 
skirts of  the  great  city  stirred  perplexing  thoughts. 
The  quiet  of  a  Chinese  evening  was  settling  on  shops 
and  homes.  Children's  voices  carried  brightly  over 
compound  walls.  Kites  flew  overhead.  The  music 
of  stringed  instruments v  floated  pleasantly,  faintly,  to 
the  ear. 

And  every  quaint  sight  and  sound  was  registered 
with  a  fresh  vividness  on  Doane's  highly  strung 
nerves.  He  was  tired;  might  easily,  too  easily,  be- 
come irritable;  a  fact  he  sensed  and  struggled  to 


STORM  CENTER  185 

guard  against.  Now,  of  all  occasions  in  his  life,  he 
must  exercise  self-control.  Difficult  tasks  lay  directly 
ahead.  One  would  be  the  talk  with  Pao  Ting  Chuan 
about  the  So  T'ung  massacre.  Pao  was,  in  his  Ori- 
ental way,  friendly;  but  his  way  was  Oriental.  It 
would  be  necessary  to  meet  him  at  every  evasive  turn ; 
necessary  to  read  behind  every  courteous  speech  of  a 
cultivated  and  charming  gentleman  the  complex  mo- 
tivation of  a  mandarin  skilled  in  the  intricate  relation- 
ships of  the  Court  of  Peking.  Helping  avert  trouble 
was  one  matter;  Pao  could  doubtless,  or  apparently, 
be  counted  on  to  that  extent;  but  assuming  full  respon- 
sibility for  the  taking  of  white  life  and  the  destruction 
of  white  man's  property,  was  a  vastly  more  compli- 
cated matter.  No  other  sort  of  human  creature  is  so 
skilful  at  evading  responsibility  as  the  Chinaman;  this, 
perhaps,  because  responsibility,  once  accepted,  is,  under 
the  Chinese  tradition  and  system,  inescapable.  .  .  . 
Another  task,  of  course,  would  be  the  telling  Boat- 
wright  of  his  personal  disaster.  It  still  seemed  better 
to  do  this  before  the  news  could  drift  around  in  some 
vulgar,  disruptive  way  from  Shanghai.  He  couldn't 
plan  this  talk,  not  yet ;  but  a  way  would  doubtless  pre- 
sent itself.  He  stood  before  his  God,  in  his  own  strong 
heart,  convicted  of  sin.  There  had  been  moments, 
during  the  tramp  southward,  when  he  found  himself 
welcoming  this  nearly  public  self-arraignment  with  a 
bitter  eagerness.  But  at  such  moments  pictures  of 
Betty  rose  in  his  mind,  and  of  the  gentle  beautiful 
wife  of  his  youth — wistful,  delicately  traced  pictures. 


186  HILLS  OF  HAN 

His  face  would  change  then;  the  lines  would  deepen 
and  a  look  of  torment,  of  wild  hurt  animal  strength 
that  was  new,  would  appear  in  and  about  his  deep- 
shaded  eyes. 

2 

As  he  drew  near  the  mission  compound  his  stride 
shortened  and  slowed.  Once  he  stopped,  and  for  a 
brief  time  stood  motionless,  not  heeding  the  curious 
Chinese  who  passed  (dim  figures  with  soft-padded 
shoes),  his  lips  drawn  tightly  together  over  nervous 
mutterings  that  nearly,  once  or  twice,  came  out  as 
sounds.  He  was  not  a  man  who  talks  out  overwrought 
feeling's  on  the  public  way.  The  tendency  alarmed  him. 

He  came  deliberately  into  the  gate  house.  Here, 
talking  in  some  excitement  with  old  Sun,  were  four  or 
five  ©f  the  servants. 

He  paused  to  ask  what  was  the  matter.  To  take 
hold  again,  to  step  so  quickly  into  his  position  as 
head  ©f  the  compound,  brought  a  sense  of  relief. 
That  would  be  habit  functioning.  A  moment  later,  his 
confusion  was  deeper  than  before;  in  one  of  those 
quick  flashes  that  can  illuminate  and  occupy  the  inner 
mind  while  the  outer  is  engaged  with  the  brisk  affairs 
of  life,  he  was  wondering  how  soon  these  men  would 
know  what  he  was,  what  pitiful  sort  he  had  overnight 
become;  and  what  they  would  think  of  him,  they  who 
now  obeyed  and  loved  him. 

They  told  him  the  gossip  of  the  streets.  Those 
strange  soldiers,  Lookers,  from  beyond  the  western 
mountains,  had  been  coming  of  late  to  the  yamen  of 


STORM  CENTER  187 

old  Kang  Hsu.  Kang,  so  ran  the  local  story,  had  re- 
viewed these  troops  within  the  twelve  hours,  witness- 
ing their  incantations,  giving  them  his  approval. 

Doane  said  what  little  he  could  to  quiet  their  fears ; 
he  even  managed  a  rather  austere  smile;  then  passed 
on  into  the  courtyard. 

Dr.  Cassin  came  slowly  down  the  steps  from  the 
dispensary,  her  keys  jingling  in  her  hand.  She  was  a 
spare,  competent  woman,  deeply  consecrated  to  her 
work,  but  not  lacking  in  kindliness. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Doane !"  she  said.  Then,  "How  did  you 
find  things  at  So  T'ung?" 

He  stood  a  moment,  looking  at  her. 

"Very  bad,"  he  said. 

"Not— well— " 

Doane  inclined  his  head.  "Yes,  Jen  is  gone — and 
twelve  to  fifteen  others.  Shot  or  burned.  One  helper 
escaped.  I  could  get  word  of  no  others.  One  of  Mon- 
sieur Pourmont's  engineers  helped  very  bravely  in 
the  defense,  but  was  finally  clubbed  to  death." 

Dr.  Cassin  stood  silent;  then  drew  in  her  breath 
sharply.  The  keys  jingled. 

"Oh!"  she  murmured  in  a  broken  voice.  "That  is 
bad!" 

"It  couldn't  be  worse.    How  is  it  here?" 

"Well" — she  pursed  her  lips — "I'm  afraid  we've  aM 
been  getting  a  little  nervous.  It's  well  you're  back. 
We  need  you.  The  servants  are  jumpy.  .  .  ." 

"I  gathered  that,  in  the  gate  house." 

"I  wonder  ...  in  the  fighting  at  So  T'ung  there 
must  have  been  a  good  many  wounded.  .  .  ." 


188  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Among  the  attackers,  yes ;  the  Lookers  themselves, 
and  village  rowdies." 

"I  was  wondering  .  .  .  mightn't  it  be  a  good 
thing  for  me  to  go  up  there  and  take  charge?" 

"No." 

"For  the  effect  it  might  have  on  the  people,  I  mean. 
Wouldn't  it  help  restore  their  confidence  in  us?" 

"No,  Doctor.  The  people — except  the  young  men — • 
haven't  changed.  Trouble  will  come  wherever  the 
Lookers  go.  No,  your  place  is  here." 

Once  in  the  mission  residence,  Doane  hurried  up 
the  two  flights  of  stairs  to  his  own  rooms.  He  met 
no  one;  the  door  of  Boatwright's  study  was  closed. 

So  they  needed  him.  The  strain  was  shaking  their 
morale  a  little.  It  was  really  not  surprising,  after 
1900.  But  if  they  needed  him  it  was  no  time  to  in- 
dulge his  own  emotions.  He  would  have  to  take  hold 
again,  that  was  all ;  perhaps  keep  hold,  letting  the  news 
that  was  to  be  to  him  so  evil  come  up  as  it  might.  He 
sighed  as  he  closed  his  door.  Some  sort  of  a  scene  there 
must  be;  at  least  a  talk  with  the  Boatwrights  about 
So  T'ung  and  about  the  local  problem.  .  .  .  One 
thing  he  could  do ;  remove  his  dusty  clothing,  wash,  put 
on  fresh  things.  It  would  nelp  a  little,  just  the  physical 
refreshment.  He  went  back  to  the  door  and  locked  it. 
....  Boatwright  would  be  up,  almost  certainly. 

Very  shortly  came  the  familiar  hesitant  tapping. 
For  years  the  little  man  had  made  his  presence  known 
in  that  same  faintly  timid  way.  It  was  irritating.  .  .  . 

Doane  called  out  that  he  would  be  down  soon. 


STORM  CENTER  189 

"Oh  ...  all  right  .  .  .  thank  you!"  Thus 
Boatwright,  outside  the  door.  And  then  he  moved 
slowly,  uncertainly,  down  the  stairs. 


Boatwright  was  sitting  idle  at  his  desk,  rolling  a 
pencil  about.  It  was  an  old  roll-top  desk  from  Michi- 
gan via  Shanghai.  Doane  closed  the  door,  quietly,  and 
drew  up  a  chair. 

"You'd  better  read  this."  Boatwright  spread  a  tele- 
gram on  the  desk.  "I  haven't  told  the  others.  It  came 
late  this  afternoon." 

The  message  was  from  Mrs.  Nacy,  acting  dean  of 
the  little  college  at  Hung  Chan. 

"Several  hundred  Lookers" — it  ran — "broke  into 
compound  this  noon  and  took  all  our  food,  slightly  in- 
juring cook  and  helper  who  resisted ;  they  order  us  to 
send  all  girl  students  home;  remain  at  present  carous- 
ing near  compound ;  very  threatening ;  commander  for- 
bids any  communication  with  you  as  they  seem  to  fear 
you  and  your  influence  at  Judge's  yamen,  though 
boasting  that  Treasurer  now  rules  province  and  that 
Judge  will  be  fortunate  to  escape  with  his  life;  wish 
greatly  you  could  be  here." 

Doane,  sitting  very  quietly,  shading  his  eyes  with  a 
powerful  hand,  read  the  message  twice;  then  asked, 
calmly : 

"Have  you  notified  Pao  ?" 


190  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Not  yet.  Your  message  came  several  hours  earlier. 
It  seemed  wise  to  wait  for  you." 

Doane  considered  the  matter;  then  reached  for  red 
paper,  ink  pot  and  brush,  and  wrote,  in  Chinese,  the 
equivalent  of  the  following  note: 

"I  beg  to  report  that  a  band  of  Lookers  at  So  T'ung, 
assisted  by  local  young  men,  killed  Jen  Ling  Pu  and 
about  fourteen  others,  including  white  engineer  named 
Beggins  from  compound  of  Monsieur  Pourmont  at 
Ping  Yang.  Considerable  property  destroyed.  Sev- 
eral buildings  burned  to  ground.  Further,  to-day, 
comes  a  report  of  attack  on  the  Mission  College  at 
Hung  Chan,  with  urgent  appeal  for  help.  I  am  go- 
ing to  Hung  Chan  at  once,  to-night,  and  must  beg  of 
Your  Excellency  immediate  support  from  local  offi- 
cials and  troops.  I  must  further  beg  to  advise  Your 
Excellency  that  I  am  reporting  these  unfortunate 
events  to  the  American  Minister  at  Peking  by  tele- 
graph to-night  and  to  suggest  that  only  the  greatest 
promptness  and  firmness  on  your  part  can  now  avert 
widespread  trouble  which  threatens  to  bow  the  head 
of  China  once  more  with  shame  in  the  dust. 

"JAMES  GRIGGSBY  DOANE." 

He  struck  a  bell  then,  and  to  the  servant  who  entered 
gave  instructions  regarding  the  etiquette  to  be  ob- 
served in  promptly  delivering  the  note  at  the  yamen  of 
the  provincial  judge. 

"I  am  worried,  I'll  admit,  about  Kang,"  observed 
Boatwright,  when  the  servant  had  gone.  He  said 
this  without  looking  up,  rolling  the  pencil  back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth.  His  voice  was  light  and  husky. 


STORM  CENTER  191 

Doane,  watching  him,  felt  now  that  his  own  task 
was  to  forget  self  utterly.  It  was  beginning,  even,  to 
seem  the  pleasantly  selfish  course.  The  trip  down  to 
Hung  Chan  he  welcomed.  He  would  drive  himself 
mercilessly ;  it  would  be  an  escaping  from  his  thoughts. 
Moments  had  come,  during  the  walk  from  So  T'ung, 
when  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  understood  sui- 
cide. So  many  men  fell  back  on  it  during  the  tragic 
disillusionments  of  middle  life.  The  trouble  with  sui- 
cide, of  course,  this  sort,  was  the  element  of  cowardice. 
He  wasn't  beaten.  Not  yet.  At  least,  he  had  strength 
left,  and  physical  courage.  No,  action  was  the  thing. 
It  was  the  sort  of  contribution  he  was  best  fitted  to 
give  these  helpless,  frightened  people  here.  As  to  Betty, 
he  would  give  to  the  limits  of  his  great  strength. 

And  so  he  answered  Boatwright  with  a  manner  of 
calm  confidence. 

"Kang  is  putting  up  a  fight,  of  course,  but  Pao  will 
prove  too  strong  for  him.  At  least,  there's  no  good 
in  believing  anything  else,  Elmer.  It's  the  position 
we've  got  to  take.  I'll  get  into  my  walking  clothes 
again." 

"You're  not  going  to  Hung  Chan  alone,  to-night?" 

"Yes.    It's  the  quickest  way." 

"Don't  you  need  sleep — a  few  hours,  at  least?" 

"No,  I  was  too  late  at  So  T'ung." 

"That  was  not  your  fault." 

"No.  Still  .  .  .  I'll  go  right  along."  Doane 
got  up. 

"If  you  could  give  me  a  few  minutes  more    .    .    . 


192  HILLS  OF  HAN 

there's  another  matter.  I'm  afraid  you'll  regard  it  as 
rather  important.  It's — difficult.  .  .  ."  And  then, 
instead  of  continuing,  he  fell  to  rolling  the  pencil,  and 
gazing  at  it.  His  color  rose  a  little. 

There  was  a  light  knock  at  the  door.  Neither  man 
responded.  After  a  moment  the  door  opened  a  little 
way,  and  Mrs.  Boatwright  looked  in. 

"Oh!  .  .  ."  she  exclaimed,  then:  "How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Doane!  .  .  .  Elmer,  have  you  spoken  of 
that  matter?" 

"I  was  just  beginning  to,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Boatwright,  after  a  silence,  came  in  and  closed 
the  door  softly  behind  her. 

"Mr.  Doane  hasn't  much  time."  Boatwright's  voice 
was  low,  tremulous.  "Matters  at  So  T'ung  are  as  bad 
as  they  could  be.  And  he  is  going  down  to  Hung 
Chan  now." 

"To-night?"  asked  the  wife,  rather  sharply. 

Doane  inclined  his  head. 

"Then  what  are  we  to 'do?" 

"Mr.  Doane,"  put  in  the  husband,  "has  given  in- 
structions that  we  are  to  stay  here." 

"Oh — instructions?" 

"Yes,"  said  Doane  gravely.  And  he  courteously  ex- 
plained :  "The  situation  is  developing  too  rapidly  for 
us  to  get  all  the  others  in  to  T'ainan.  And  we  can't 
desert  them.  Not  yet.  You  will  certainly  be  safer 
here  than  you  would  be  on  the  road.  Hung  Chan  is 
only  eighteen  miles.  I  shall  be  back  within  twenty- 
four  hours,  probably  to-morrow  evening.  Then  we 


STORM  CENTER  193 

will  hold  a  conference  and  decide  finally  on  a  course. 
We  may  be  reduced  to  demanding  an  escort  to  Ping 
Yang,  telegraphing  the  others  to  save  themselves  as 
best  they  can." 

Mrs.  Boatwright  soberly  considered  the  problem. 

"It  looks  like  nineteen  hundred  all  over  again," 
Boatwright  muttered  huskily,  without  looking  up. 
'  "No,"  said  Doane,  "it  won't  be  the  same.  The  only 
thing  we  positively  know  is  that  history  never  repeats 
itself.  We'll  take  it  as  it  comes."  He  didn't  see  Mrs. 
Boatwright's  sharp  eyes  taking  him  in  as  he  said  this. 
"I'll  leave  you  now." 

"Just  this  other  matter,"  said  the  wife,  more  briskly. 
"I  won't  keep  you  long.  But  I  don't  feel  free  to  han- 
dle the  situation  in  my  own  way,  and — well,  something 
must  be  done." 

"You  see,"  said  the  husband,  "there's  a  man  here — 
a  queer  American — he  turned  up — " 

"Elmer!"  the  wife  interrupted,  "if  you  will  let  me. 

.  .  It  is  a  man  your  daughter  met  on  the  ship 
coming  out,  Mr.  Doane.  Evidently  a  case  of  infatua- 
tion. .  .  ." 

"He  is  a  journalist — has  written  works  on  British 
administration  in  India,  I  believe — " 

"Elmer!  Please!  The  fact  is,  the  man  has  de- 
liberately followed  Betty  out  here.  There  is  some 
understanding  between  them — something  that  should 
be  got  at.  The  man  is  married.  Betty  admits  that — 
she  seems  to  be  intimately  in  his  confidence.  He  came 
rushing  out  here  without  so  much  as  a  passport.  El- 


194  HILLS  OF  HAN 

mer  has  had  to  give  up  a  good  deal  of  time  to  setting 
him  right  at  Pao's  yamen.  I  very  properly  refused  to 
accept  him  here  as  a  .guest,  whereupon  Betty  got  word 
to  him  secretly  and  they  have  been  meeting — 

"Out  in  the  tennis  court !" 

"Last  night  I  found  them  there  myself.  I  sent  him 
away,  and  brought  Betty  in." 

"Tell  it  all,  dear!" 

"I  will.  Mr.  Doane  must  know  the  facts.  The  man 
was  kissing  her.  He  offered  no  apology.  And  Betty 
was  defiant.  She  seemed  then  to  fear  the  man  would 
not  appear  again,  but  in  some  way  she  found  him  this 
afternoon  out  in  the  side  street.  They  must  have  been 
there  together  for  some  time,  walking  back  and  forth, 
talking  earnestly.  I  had  other  things  to  do,  of  course. 
I  couldn't  devote  all  my  time  to  watching  her.  And 
it  would  seem,  if  she  had  any  normal  sense  of  ... 
I  secured  a  promise  then  from  Betty  that  she  would 
not  meet  him  again  until  after  your  return.  The  man, 
howerer,  would  promise  nothing." 

On  few  occasions  in  her  intensely  busy  life  had  Mrs. 
Boatwright  been  so  voluble.  But  she  was  excited  and 
perhaps  a  little  prurjent;  for  to  such  severe  self-disci- 
pline as  hers  there  are  opposite  and  sometimes  equal 
reactions. 

"Something  must  be  done,  and  at  once."  She  ap- 
peared to  be  bringing  her  speech  to  a  conclusion.  "The 
man  impressed  me  as  persistent  and  quite  shameless. 
He  is  unquestionably  exerting  a  dangerous  power  over 
the  girl.  Even  in  times  like  these,  I  am  sure  that  you, 


STORM  CENTER  195 

as  her  father,  will  feel  that  a  strong  effort  must  be 
made  to  save  her.  I  needn't  speak  of  the  whispers 
that  are  already  loose  about  the  compound." 

Through  all  this,  Doane,  his  face  wholly  expression- 
less except  for  a  stunned  look  about  the  eyes  and  per- 
haps a  sad  settling  about  the  mouth,  looked  quietly 
from  wife  to  husband  and  back  again.  They  seemed 
utter  strangers,  these  two.  With  disconcerting  abrupt- 
ness he  discovered  that  he  disliked  them  both.  .  .  . 
Another  thought  that  came  was  of  the  scene  of  desola- 
tion he  had  left  at  So  T'ung.  After  that,  what  mat- 
tered, what  little  human  thing !  Then  it  occurred  to  his 
dazed  mind  that  this  wouldn't  do.  Suddenly  he  could 
see  Betty — her  charm  and  grace,  her  bright  pretty 
ways,  with  his  inner  eye ;  and  again  his  spirit  was  torn 
and  tortured  as  all  during  the  night,  back  there  in  the 
hills.  If  only  he  could  recall  the  prayers  that  used  to 
rise  so  easily  and  earnestly  from  his  eager  heart ! 

"Where  is  she  now?"  he  asked,  outwardly  so  calm 
as  to  stir  resentment  in  the  woman  before  him.  She 
replied,  acidly: 

"In  her  room.    If  she  hasn't  slipped  out  again." 

"She  promised,  I  believe  you  said." 

This  was  uttered  so  quietly  that  a  slow  moment 
passed  before  it  reached  home.  Then  Mrs.  Boatwright 
replied,  with  less  emphasis : 

"Yes.    She  promised." 

"And  where  is  the  man?" 

"At  an  inn,  somewhere  inside  the  walls.  Sun  w*uld 
know." 


196  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"What  is  his  name?" 

Boatwright  fumbled  among  the  papers  on  his  desk, 
and  found  a  card  which  he  passed  over. 

Doane  looked  thoughtfully  at  it,  then  slipped  it  into 
a  pocket;  said,  quiet,  deathly  sober,  "You  may  look 
for  me  sometime  to-morrow  night.  We  will  make  our 
final  arrangements  then.  Meantime  you  had  all  better 
get  what  rest  you  can."  Then  he  left  the  room. 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other.  The  man's 
lids  drooped  first.  He  began  rolling  the  pencil.  Finally 
he  said,  listlessly: 

"Probably  it  would  be  wise  to  sort  out  these  papers 
— get  the  letters  and  reports  straight.  If  we  should 
go,  there  wouldn't  be  much  time  for  packing." 


Doane  went  directly  to  Betty's  door,  and  knocked. 
She  came  at  once,  in  her  pretty  kimono ;  peeped  out  at 
him;  crief  softly: 

"Oh,  Dad!    You're  safe!" 

"Yes,  dear.  I  have  one  more  trip,  a  short  one.  It 
will  be  all  I  can  do.  To-morrow  night  I'll  be  back  for 
good.  Take  care  of  yourself,  little  girl." 

"Yes — oh,  yes!     But  I  shall  worry  about  you." 

"No.     Never  worry.    I'll  be  back." 

That  seemed  to  be  all  he  could  say.  She,  too,  was 
still.  The  silence  lengthened,  grew  into  a  conscious 
thing  in  his  mind  and  hers.  Finally  he  took  a  hesi- 
tating backward  step. 


STORM  CENTER  197 

"I  must  be  off,  dear." 

"Dad — wait!"  She  stood  erect,  her  head  drawn 
back,  looking  directly  at  him  out  of  curiously  bright 
eyes.  Her  abundant  hair  flowed  down  about  her  shoul- 
ders .  .  .  But  he  thought  of  her  eyes.  They  were 
frank,  brave,  and  very  young  and  eager  and  bright. 
Somewhere  within  her  slim  little  frame  she  had  a  store 
of  fine  young  courage ;  he  knew  it  now,  and  felt  a  thrill 
that  was  at  once  hope  and  pain.  He  had  to  fight  back 
tears.  .  .  .  She  was  going  to  tell  him.  Yes,  she 
was  plunging  wonderfully  into  it : 

"There's  one  thing,  Dad!  I'm  sorry — I  oughtn't 
to  make  you  think  of  other  things  now.  But  if  we 
could  only  have  a  little  talk.  .  .  ." 

He  managed  to  say : 

"Only  a  day  more,  dear." 

"Yes.  I  suppose  we  should  wait  .  .   .  though  .   .   ." 

He  stepped  forward,  drew  her  to  him,  and  in  an 
uprush  of  exquisite  tenderness  kissed  her  forehead; 
then,  with  an  odd  little  sound  that  might  almost  have 
been  a  sob,  he  rushed  off,  descended  the  stairs,  and 
went  out  the  front  door. 

From  the  window  she  saw  his  dim  figure  crossing 
the  court.  At  the  gate  house  he  paused  and  called 
aloud. 

Two  of  the  servants  came;  she  could  see  their 
quaintly  colored  paper  lanterns  bobbing  about.  One  of 
them  went  into  the  gate  house  and  came  out  again. 
He  was  struggling  with  something.  She  strained  her 
eyes  against  the  glass.  Oh,  yes — he  was  getting  into 


198  HILLS  OF  HAN 

his  long  coat;  that  was  all.  Apparently  he  went  out, 
this  man,  with  her  father.  .  .  .  The  other  colored 
lantern  bobbed  back  into  the  gate  house,  and  the  com- 
pound settled  again  into  calm. 

Doane,  though  he  could  not  talk  with  his  daughter, 
could  talk  directly  and  bluntly  to  the  man  named  Bra- 
chey,  who  had  rushed  out  here  incontinent  after  her. 
He  knew  this;  was  alive  with  a  slow  swelling  anger 
that  came  to  him  as  a  perverse  sort  of  blessing  after 
the  cumulative  emotional  torment  of  the  past  three 
days. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  PLEDGE 

1 

ON  the  morning  of  that  same  day — while 
Griggsby  Doane  was  striding  down  the  moun- 
tain road  from  So  Tung  to  T'ainan-fu — Jonathan 
Brachey  sat  in  his  room  at  the  inn  trying  to  read,  try- 
ing to  write,  counting  the  minutes  until  two  o'clock 
at  which  hour  Betty  would  be  waiting  in  the  tennis 
court,  when  John  slipped  in  with  a  small  white  card 
bearing  the  printed  legend,  in  English : 

MR.  PO 
Interpreter  and  Secretary 

Yamen  of  His  Ex- 
cellency the  Pro- 
vincial Judge  T'AINAN-FU 

Mr.  Po  proved  to  be  a  tall,  slim,  rather  elegant 
young  man  in  conventional  plain  robe,  black  skull-cap 
and  large  spectacles,  who  met  Brachey's  stiff  greeting 
with  a  broad  smile  and  a  wholly  Western  grip  of  the 
hand. 

"How  d' do!"  he  said  eagerly:  "How  d' do!"  Then 
199 


206  HILLS  OF  HAN 

he  glanced  about  at  the  two  worn  old  chairs,  the  crum- 
bling walls  of  the  sun-dried  brick  with  their  soiled, 
ragged  motto  scrolls,  the  dirty  matting  on  the  kang, 
and  slowly  shook  his  head.  "You're  not  comfortable 
as  all  get-out." 

If  there  was  in  Mr.  Po's  speech  a  softness  of  in- 
tonation and  a  faint  difficulty  with  the  r's  and  I's,  the 
faults  were  not  so  marked  as  to  demand  changes  of 
spelling  in  setting  it  down.  He  accepted  a  cigarette. 
Brachey  lighted  his  pipe. 

"You  are  quite  at  home  in  English,"  remarked 
Brachey. 

"Oh,  yes!  English  is  my  professional  matter  in 
hand." 

"You  have  lived  abroad?" 

"Oh,  no!  But  at  Tientsin  Anglo-Chinese  College, 
I  made  consumption  largely  of  midnight  oil.  And 
among  English  people  society  I  have  broken  the  ice." 

Brachey  settled  back  in  the  angular  chair;  pulled 
at  his  pipe ;  thought.  The  man  was  here  for  a  purpose, 
of  course.  But  from  that  slightly  eager  manner,  it 
seemed  reasonable  to  infer  that  among  his  motives 
was  a  desire  to  practise  and  exhibit  his  English,  a 
curious  mixture  of  book  phrases  and  coast  slang,  with 
here  and  there  the  Chinese  sentence-structure  showing 
through.  And  he  offered  an  opportunity  to  study  the 
local  problem  that  Brachey  mentally  leaped  at. 

So  these  two  fell  into  chat,  the  smiling  young 
Chinese  gentleman  and  the  austere  Westerner.  Mr. 
Po,  speaking  easily,  without  emphasis,  his  casual  man- 


THE  PLEDGE  201 

ner  suggesting  that  nothing  mattered  much — not  old 
or  new,  life  or  death — revealed,  through  the  words 
he  so  lightly  used,  stirring  enthusiasms.  And  Brachey 
observed  him  through  narrowed  eyes. 

Here,  thought  the  journalist,  before  him,  smoking 
a  cigarette,  sat  modern  China;  in  robe  and  queue, 
speaking  of  the  future  but  ridden  by  the  past;  using 
strong  words  but  with  no  fire,  no  urge  or  glow  in  the 
voice;  as  if  eager  to  hope  without  the  substance  of 
hope ;  at  once  age  and  youth,  smiling  down  the  weary 
centuries  at  himself. 

"It  has  been  expressed  to  me  that  you  are  litera- 
ture man."  Thus  Mr.  Po. 

Brachey's  head  moved  downward. 

"That  is  quite  wonderful.  If  you  will  tell  me  the 
names  of  certain  of  your  books  I  will  give  myself  great 
delight  in  reading  them.  I  read  English  like  the  devil 
— all  the  time.  I'm  crazy  about  Emerson." 

Brachey  led  him  on.  They  talked  of  Russia  and 
England,  of  the  new  railways  in  China,  of  truculent 
Japan,  of  Edison,  much  of  Roosevelt.  Mr.  Po  sug- 
gested a  walk ;  and  they  mounted  the  city  wall,  sat  on 
the  parapet  and  talked  on ;  the  Chinaman  always  smil- 
ing, nerveless,  his  calm,  easily  flowing  voice  without 
body  or  emphasis.  Brachey  finally  succeeded  in  guid- 
ing the  man  to  his  own  topic,  China. 

"It  puzzles  and  bewilders,"  said  Mr.  Po.  "China 
must  leap  like  grasshopper  over  the  many  centuries. 
To  railways  one  may  turn  for  beneficent  assistance. 
And  also  to  missionaries." 


202  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"I'm  surprised  to  hear  you  say  that.  I  supposed  all 
China  was  opposed  to  the  missionaries." 

"I  do  not  dwell  at  present  time  upon  their  religion 
practises.  That  may  be  all  to  the  good — I  can  not  say. 
But  the  domicile  of  each  and  every  missionary  may 
be  termed  civilization  propaganda  center.  Here  are 
found  books,  medicines,  lamps.  Your  eyes  have  dis- 
cerned enveloping  gloom  of  Chinese  cities  by  night. 
Think,  I  beg  of  you,  what  difference  it  will  be  when 
illumination  brightens  all.  Our  people  do  not  like  these 
things,  it  is  true.  They  descend  avidly  into  supersti- 
tions. They  make  a  hell  of  a  fuss.  But  that  fuss  is 
growing  pain.  China  must  grow,  though  suffering 
accumulate  and  dismay." 

"Come  to  think  of  it,"  mused  Brachey  aloud,  "su- 
perstition isn't  stopping  the  railroads." 

Mr.  Po  snapped  his  fingers,  smilingly.  "A  fig  and 
thistle  for  superstition!"  he  remarked.  "Take  good 
look  at  the  railways!  What  happened?  In  every  field 
of  China,  as  you  know,  stand  grave  mounds  of  hon- 
orable ancestral  worshiping.  It  will  break  heart  of 
China  to  desecrate  those  grave  mounds.  It  will  bring 
down  untold  misery  upon  ancestors.  But  when  they 
build  Hankow-Peking  Railway,  very  slick  speculator 
employed  observation  upon  surveyors  and  purchased 
up  claims  against  railway  for  bringing  misery  upon 
ancestors  and  sold  them  to  railway  company  at  hand- 
some profit  to  himself.  And,  sir,  do  you  know  what 
it  set  back  company  to  desecrate  ancestors  of  China? 


THE  PLEDGE  203 

It  set  back  twelve  dollars  per  ancestor.  And  that  slick 
speculator  he  is  now  millionaire.  He  erects  imposing 
house  at  Shanghai  and  elaborates  dinners  to  white 
merchants.  It  is  said  that  he  will  soon  be  compradore 
and  partner  in  most  pretentious  English  Hong.  .  .  . 
No,  the  superstition  will  have  to  go.  It  will  go  like  the 
chaff." 

"But  this  big  change  will  take  a  little  time." 

"Time?  Oh,  yes,  of  course!  But  what  is  time  to 
China!  A  few  centuries!  They  are  nothing!" 

"A  few  centuries  are  something  to  me,"  observed 
Brachey  dryly. 

"Oh,  yes !  And  to  me.  That  is  different.  There  are 
times  to  come  of  running  to  and  fro  and  hubbub.  It 
is  not  easy  to  adjust." 

"It  is  not,"  said  Brachey. 

"For  myself,  I  would  like  to  get  away.  I  have  ob- 
served with  too  great  width  customs  of  white  peoples, 
I  have  perused  with  too  diligent  attention  many  Eng- 
lish books  as  well  as  those  of  French  and  German 
authorship,  to  find  contentment  in  Chinese  habit  ways. 
I  would  appreciate  to  voyage  freely  to  America.  If  I 
might  ask,  is  not  there  an  exception  made  under  so- 
called  Chinese  Exclusion  Act  in  instance  of  attentive 
student  and  gentleman  who  finds  himself  by  no  means 
dependent  upon  finance  arrangements  of  certain 
others?" 

"I  really  don't  know,"  said  Brachey.  "You'd  have 
to  talk  with  somebody  up  at  the  legation  about  that." 


204  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"But  up  at  legation  somebodies  make  always  as- 
sumption never  to  know  a  darn  thing  about  anything." 
Mr.  Po  laughed  easily. 

"I  have  employed  great  thought  concerning  this 
topic,"  he  went  on,  with  mounting  assurance.  "It  is 
here  and  now  time  of  beginning  upset  in  Hansi,  as 
perhaps  as  well  in  all  China.  At  topmost  pinnacle  of 
Old  Order  here  stands  Kang,  the  treasurer.  It  can 
not,  indeed,  be  said  that  for  ennobling  ideas  of  New 
Order  he  cares  much  of  a  damn.  And  he  is  miser- 
ably jealous  of  His  Excellency,  Pao  Ting  Chuan.  But 
Pao  is  very  strong.  Sooner  or  later  he  will  pin  upon 
Kang  defeat  humiliation." 

"You  feel  sure  Pao  will  be  able  to  do  that?" 

"Oh,  yes!    Pao  is  cat,  Kang  is  mouse." 

"Hmm!" 

"Yes  indeed!  But  it  is  nothing  to  me.  Nothing  in 
world!  I  have  laid  before  His  Excellency  desires  of 
my  heart.  He  expresses  willing  courtesy.  If  I  may 
make  voyage  freely  he  will  make  best  of  it.  And  not 
unlike  myself  he  has  perceived  half-notion  that  if  I 
turn  to  you  for  wisdom  advice  you  will  not  turn  cold 
shoulder  and  throw  me  down."  Catching  the  opposi- 
tion behind  Brachey's  slightly  knit  brows,  he  added 
hastily,  "I  have  no  need.  That  is  to  say,  I'm  not  broke. 
And — with  this  thought  plan  I  have  made  trans fer- 
rence  of  certain  monies  to  Hongkong  Bank  at  Shang- 
hai where  no  revolution  or  hell  of  a  row  can  snatch 
it  from  my  outstretched  hands.  With  but  a  nod  from 
your  head,  sir,  and  also  with  permission  of  His  Ex- 


THE  PLEDGE  205 

cellency,  I  could  make  sneak  out  of  province  as  your 
servant." 

Brachey,  after  some  thought,  said  he  would  take  the 
proposal  under  consideration. 

During  the  walk  back  to  the  inn  he  contrived  to 
hold  the  interpreter's  chatter  closely  to  the  ferment 
in  the  province. 

Kang,  it  appeared,  was  openly  backing  the  Lookers 
now.  His  yamen  enclosure  swarmed  with  ragged  sol- 
diers from  the  West  who  foraged  among  the  shops 
for  food  and  trinkets,  and  beat  or  shot  the  inoffensive 
Chinese  merchants  by  way  of  emphasizing  rather  cas- 
ually their  privileged  status  in  the  capital  city.  Down 
the  river,  near  Hung  Chan,  a  more  considerable  con- 
centration of  the  strange  troops  was  taking  place. 
Hung  Chan  was  also  the  rendezvous  for  the  local 
young  men  who  had  been  initiated  into  the  Looker 
bands.  Rumors  were  flying  of  a  general  massacre  to 
come  of  the  white  and  secondary  (or  native)  Chris- 
tians. There  was  even  talk  of  a  political  alliance  with 
the  organizers  of  rebellion  in  the  South  against  the  Im- 
perial Manchu  Government  and  of  a  triumphant  march 
to  the  coast.  A  phrase  that  might  be  translated  as 
"China  for  the  Chinese"  had  come  into  circulation. 

Brachey  grew  more  and  more  thoughtful  as  he 
listened. 

"If  Pao  is  so  strong,  why  does  he  permit  matters 
to  go  so  far?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Po  laughed.  "His  Excellency  will  in  his  own 
good  time  get  move  on  himself." 


206  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Hmm!" 

"Only  yesterday  I  myself  was  pinched  on  street  by 
Western  soldiers." 

"Pinched?" 

"Seized  and  arrested.   Taken  up." 

Brachey  raised  his  eyebrows;  but  Mr.  Po  smiled 
easily  on. 

"Oh,  yes!  They  called  me  secondary  Christian. 
They  ran  me  in  before  low  woman,  a  courtesan.  They 
have  told  Kang  that  this  courtesan  is  second-sighted." 

"Clairvoyant?" 

"Yes,  that  is  now  firm  belief  of  Kang  on  mere  say- 
so  of  cheap  skates.  This  courtesan  has  been  conveyed 
to  treasurer's  yamen  where  with  eunuchs  and  concu- 
bines to  attend  and  soldiers  to  stand  sentry-go  she  now 
holds  forth  to  beat  the  Dutch.  All  perfectly  absurd !" 

"And  this  creature  sat  in  judgment  over  you?" 

"Oh,  yes !    Not  a  day  since." 

"What  was  her  decision?" 

Again  that  easy  laugh.  "Oh,  she  decree  that  I  am 
to  kick  bucket." 

"Execute  you,  eh?    You  take  it  lightly." 

"It  is  nothing.  I  will  tell  you.  In  companionship 
with  me  was  my  bosom  friend,  Chih  T'ang,  who  is 
third  son  of  well-known  censor  of  Peking,  Chih  Chang 
Pu.  It  was  Chih  who  got  hustle  on  to  yamen  of  His 
Excellency — " 

"By  His  Excellency  you  mean  Pao?" 

"In  every  instance,  if  you  please!  Well,  like  a  shot 
His  Excellency  acted  in  my  behalf.  In  person  and 


THE  PLEDGE  207 

with  full  retinue  grandeur  panoply  he  set  forth  to  pay 
visit  to  old  rascal  Kang,  carrying  as  gift  of  utmost 
personal  esteem  ancient  ring  for  thumb  of  jade  that 
Kang  had  long  made  goo-goo  eyes  at.  And  he  asked 
of  Kang  as  favor  mark  to  himself  that  he  be  let 
known  instanter,  right  away,  if  any  of  soldiers  from 
his  yamen  should  behave  with  unpleasantness  toward 
new  soldiers  of  Kang,  for  new  soldiers  of  Kang  had 
come  to  T'ainan-fu  out  of  far  country  and  not  un- 
naturally felt  homesick  and  were  not  in  each  instance 
in  step  with  customs  of  our  city.  And  he  made  expla- 
nation as  well  that  he  would  instruct  his  secretary,  Po 
Sui-an,  to  bring  news  quicker  than  Johnny  get  your 
gun  if  his  own  soldiers  should  act  up  freshly  or  be- 
come stench  in  the  nostrils.  .  .  .  Well,  you  see, 
sir?" 

"Not  quite." 

"But  I  am  Po  Sui-an!  It  was  rebuke  like  ton  of 
brick,  falling  on  all  but  face  of  old  Kang.  It  has 
been  insisted  to  me  that  Kang  trembled  like  swaying 
aspen  reed  as  he  made  high  sign  to  attendant  man- 
darins. And  then  His  Excellency  set  forth  that  I  had 
just  stepped  out  on  brief  journey  but  would  shortly 
be  back  and  that  he  would  then  instruct  me  with  de- 
termined vigor.  .  .  .  Such  is  His  Excellency,  a 
statesman  of  stiff  upper  lip.  A  most  wise  guy!  Thus 
he  served  notice  on  that  old  reprobate  that  he  will 
strike  when  iron  is  hot." 

"They  released  you?" 


208  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"At  once.  On  return  of  His  Excellency,  t»  his 
yamen,  there  was  I,  slick  as  whistle !" 

"Very  interesting.  But  if  Kang  continues  to  bring 
in  soldiers  from  the  West,  how  is  Pao  going  to  strike 
with  any  hope  of  success?  Is  he,  too,  marshaling  an 
army  ?" 

"Oh,  no !  But  you  see,  I  come  to  call  upon  you,  with 
you  f  walk  freely  about  streets.  At  Kang  I  thumb  my 
nose  and  tell  him  go  chase  himself.  Pao  will  protect 
myself  and  you." 

"But  as  I  understand  it,  Kang  officially  ranks  Pao." 

"Oh,  yes !    But  that  is  nothing." 

"It  looks  like  a  little  something  to  me." 

"Oh,  no !  I  will  ask  you  for  brief  moment  to  glance 
sidelong  at  Forbidden  City  of  Peking.  There  during 
long  devil  of  a  while  Eastern  Empress  officially  ranked 
Western  Empress,  but  I  would  call  your  attention  to 
insignificant  matter  that-  it  was  not  Western  Empress 
— she  whom  you  dub  Empress  Dowager — that  turned 
up  her  toes  most  opportunely  to  daisies." 

"Oh,  I  see!  Then  it  is  believed  that  the  Empress 
Dowager  had  the  Eastern  Empress  killed?" 

"You  could  not  ask  that  she  neglect  wholly  her 
fences." 

"No.    ...    no,  I  suppose  you  couldn't  ask  that." 

"She  is  great  woman.  She  will  not  permit  that  an- 
other person  put  her  on  the  blink.  It  is  so  with  His 
Excellency.  A  dam'  big  man !  We  shall  see !"  .  .  . 
He  hesitated,  smiling  a  thought  more  eagerly  than  be- 


THE  PLEDGE  209 

£•1*.  They  had  reached  the  gate  of  the  inn  compound. 
His  quick  eye  had  caught  increasing  signs  of  preoccu- 
pation in  Brachey's  manner.  Finally,  laughing  again, 
he  said : 

"There  is  one  other  little  bagatelle.  An  utter  ab- 
surdity !  I  have  made  preparation  for  lecture  in  Eng- 
lish about  China.  Name  of  it  is  'Pigtail  and  Chop- 
stick.'  When  I  read  it  at  college  I  must  say  they  held 
sides  and  shook  like  jelly  bowl.  On  that  occasion  it 
was  made  plain  to  me  by  men  of  thought  that  it  is 
peach  of  a  lecture.  It's  a  scream."  His  laugh  indi- 
cated now  an  apologetic  self-consciousness.  "It  was 
said  that  in  America  my  lecture  would  be  knockout, 
that  Chinaman  treading  with  humor  the  lyceum  would 
make  novelty  excitement.  Indeed,  by  gentleman  of 
Customs  Administration  this  was  handed  me.  .  .  ." 
He  fumbled  inside  his  gown,  finally  producing  a 
frayed  bit  of  ruled  paper,  evidently  torn  from  a  pocket 
note-book,  on  which  was  written  in  pencil :  "Try  the 
J.  B.  Pond  Lyceum  Bureau,  New  York  City." 

"Since  it  was  expressed  to  me,"  he  hurried  to  add, 
"that  American  journalist  notability  was  in  our  midst, 
I  hare  amused  myself  with  fool  thought  that  you 
would  run  eyes  over  it  and  let  me  have  worst  of  it." 

"It  would  be  a  pleasure,"  said  Brachey,  civilly 
enough  but  with  considerable  dismissive  force,  extend- 
ing his  hand. 

So,  Mr.  Po,  smiling  but  something  cre«tfaflen,  saun- 
tered away. 


21«  HILLS  OF  HAN 


At  ten  o'clock  that  night  Brachey  sat  in  the  angular 
chair,  his  Bible  in  Spain  lying  open  on  his  knees,  his 
weary  face  deeply  shadowed  and  yellow-gray  in  the 
flickering  light  of  the  native  lamp  on  the  table  beside 
him. 

John  tapped  at  the  door ;  came  softly  in ;  stood,  hold- 
ing the  door  to  behind  him. 

"Well?"  cried  Brachey  irritably.  "Well?" 

"Man  wanchee  see  you.    Can  do  ?" 

"Man?    .    .    .    Whatman?" 

"No  savvy." 

"Chinaman?" 

"No  China  man.    White  man.    Too  big." 

Brachey  sprang  up;  dropped  his  book  on  the  table 
with  a  bang;  brushed  John  aside  and  opened  the  door. 
The  only  light  out  there  came  slanting  down  from  a 
brilliant  moon.  Dimly  outlined  as  shadowy  masses 
were  the  now  familiar  objects  of  the  inn  courtyard — 
the  row  of  pack-saddles  over  by  the  stable,  the  darkly 
moving  heads  of  the  horses  and  mules  behind  the  long 
manger,  the  two  millstones  on  their  rough  standard; 
above  these  the  roofs  of  curving  tile  and  a  glimpse  of 
young  foliage.  Then,  after  a  moment,  he  sensed 
movement  and  peered  across,  beyond  the  stable,  toward 
the  street  gates.  A  man  was  approaching;  a  huge 
figure  of  a  man,  six  feet  five  or  six  inches  in  height, 
broad  of  shoulder,  firm  of  tread;  stood  now  before 
him.  He  carried  something  like  a  soldier's  pack  on  his 


THE  PLEDGE  211 

back.  Brachey  on  the  door-step  found  his  eyes  level 
with  those  of  his  caller. 

"Mr.  Brachey?"  The  voice  had  the  ring  of  power 
in  it.  Brachey's  nerves  tightened. 

"Yes." 

"I  am  Mr.  Doane." 

"Will  you  please  come  in?" 

John  slipped  away.  Doane  entered;  moved  to  the 
table ;  turned.  Brachey  closed  the  door  and  faced  him. 

"You  will  perhaps  wish  to  take  off  your  pack,"  he 
said,  with  bare  civility. 

Doane  disposed  of  this  remark  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head.  "I  have  very  little  time  to  waste  on  you,"  he 
said  bruskly.  "What  are  you  doing  in  T'ainan?  Why 
did  you  come  here?" 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"Very  well,  if  you  won't  answer."  .  .  .  Doanc's 
voice  rasped.  ' 

Brachey  raised  his  hand.  "I  was  considering  your 
question,"  he  broke  in  coldly.  "While  it  is  not  the 
whole  truth,  it  will  probably  save  time  to  say  that  I 
came  to  see  your  daughter." 

He  would  have  liked  to  express  in  his  voice  some- 
thing of  the  desperate  tenderness  that  he  felt.  The 
experiences  of  the  preceding  evening  and  of  the  after- 
noon just  past — the  glimpses  he  had  had  into  the  heart 
of  a  girl,  his  little  storms  of  anger  against  Mrs.  Boat- 
wright  and  all  her  kind,  followed  in  each  instance  by 
other  little  storms  of  anger  against  himself — had  fin- 
ally swept  him  from  the  last  rational  mooring  place  out 


212  HILLS  OF  HAN 

into  the  bottomless,  boundless  sea  of  emotion.  He  had 
found  himself,  already  to-night,  a  storm-tossed  soul 
without  compass  or  bearings  or  rudder.  He  burned  to 
see  Betty  again.  It  had  taken  all  that  was  left  of  his 
will  to  keep  from  charging  out  once  more  across  the 
city,  out  through  the  wall,  to  the  mission  compound. 
He  was  shaken,  humbled,  frightened.  To  such  a  na- 
ture as  Brachey's — stubbornly  aloof  from  human  con- 
tacts, sensitively  self-sufficient — this  was  really  a  terri- 
ble experience.  It  was  the  worst  storm  of  his  life.  He 
felt — had  felt  at  times  during  the  evening,  as  he  tried 
to  brace  himself  for  this  scene  that  he  knew  had  to 
come  within  the  twenty- four  hours — something  near 
tenderness  for  the  man  who  was  Betty's  father.  There 
were  even  moments  when  he  looked  forward  to  the 
meeting  with  the  hope  that  through  the  father's  feel- 
ings he  might  be  helped  in  finding  his  lost  self. 

He  had  tried,  sitting  among  the  shadows,  to  build 
up  a  picture  of  the  man.  Several  of  these  he  had  con- 
structed, to  meet  each  of  which  he  felt  he  could  hold 
himself  in  a  mental  attitude  of  frankness  and  even 
sympathy.  But  each  of  these  pictures  was  but  an  elab- 
oration of  familiar  missionary  types.  All  were  what 
he  considered — or  once  had  considered — weak,  or 
over-earnest  to  the  borders  of  fanaticism,  or  cautious 
little  men,  or  narrow  formalists  .  .  .  men  like  Boat- 
wright.  And  without  realizing,  it,  too,  he  had  counted 
on  either  real  or  counterfeited  Christian  forbearance. 
The  only  thing  he  had  feared  might  come  up  to  disturb 
him  was  intolerance,  like  that  of  Boatwright's  wife. 


THE  PLEDGE  213 

With  that,  of  course,  you  couldn't  reason,  couldn't  talk 
at  all.  .  .  .  What  he  really  wanted  to  do,  burned 
to  do,  was  to  tell  the  exact  truth.  He  had  passed  the 
point  where  he  could  give  Betty  up ;  he  would  have  to 
fight  for  her  now,  whatever  happened.  His  one  great 
fear  had  been  that  Betty's  father  would  be  incapable 
of  entertaining  the  truth  dispassionately,  fairly. 

But  the  actual  Doane  cleared  his  over-charged  brain 
as  a  mountain  storm  will  clear  murky  air.  Here  was 
a  giant  of  a  man  who  meant  business.  Back  of  that 
strong  face,  back  of  the  deep  voice,  Brachey  felt  a 
pressure  of  anger.  It  was  not  Christian  forbearance; 
it  was  vigor  and  something  more ;  something  that  per- 
haps, probably,  would  come  out  before  they  were 
through  with  each  other.  There  was  a  restless  power 
in  the  man,  a  wild  animal  pacing  there  behind  the 
slightly  clouded  eyes.  Even  in  the  blinding  fire  of  his 
own  love  for  Betty  he  could  look  out  momentarily  and 
see  or  feel  that  this  giant  was  burning  too.  And  what 
he  saw  or  felt,  turned  his  heart  to  ice  and  his  brain  to 
tempered  metal.  Sympathy  would  have  reached 
Brachey  this  night ;  weakness,  blundering,  might  have 
reached  him.  But  now,  of  all  occasions,  he  would  not 
be  intimidated.  .  .  .  He  felt  the  change  coming  over 
him,  dreaded  it,  even  resisted  it ;  but  was  powerless  to 
check  it.  The  man  proposed  to  beat  him  down.  No 
one  had  ever  yet  done  that  to  Jonathan  Brachey.  And 
so,  though  he  tried  to  speak  with  simple  frankness  in 
saying,  "I  came  to  see  your  daughter,"  the  words  came 
out  coldly,  tinged  with  defiance,  between  set  lips. 


214  HILLS  OF  HAN 

It  might  easily  mean  a  fight  of  some  sort,  Brachey 
reflected.  This  mountain  of  a  man  could  crush  him, 
of  course.  Primitive  emotion  charged  the  air  as  each 
deliberately  studied  the  other.  ...  It  would  hardly 
matter  if  he  should  be  crushed.  There  were  no  police 
in  T'ainan  to  protect  white  men  from  each  other.  His 
wife  would  be  relieved;  a  queer,  bitter  sob  rose  part 
way  in  his  throat  at  the  thought.  There  was  no  one 
else  .  .  .  save  Betty.  Betty  would  care !  And  this 
man  was  her  father!  It  was  terrible.  .  .  .  He  was 
struggling  now  to  attain  a  humility  his  austere  life  had 
never  known;  if  only  he  could  trample  down  his  savage 
pride,  hear  the  man  out,  swallow  every  insult !  But  in 
this  struggle,  at  first,  he  failed.  Like  a  soldier  he  faced 
the  huge  fighting  man  with  a  pack  on  his  back. 

"You  knew  my  daughter  on  the  steamer?" 

"Yes." 

"Before  that — in  America?" 

"•No." 

"There  is  something  between  you?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  a  married  man?*' 

"Yes." 

Doane,  his  face  working  a  very  little,  his  arms  stiff 
and  straight  at  his  sides,  came  a  step  nearer.  Brachey 
lifted  his  chin  and  stared  up  the  more  directly  at  him. 

"You  seem  to  have  a  little  honesty,  at  least." 

"I  am  honest." 

"How  far  has  this  gone?** 

Brachey  was  silent. 


THE  PLEDGE  215 

Doane  took  another  step. 

"Why  don't  I  kill  you?"  he  breathed. 

It  was  then  that  Brachey  first  caught  the  full  force 
of  Doane's  emotional  torment.  To  say  that  he  did  not 
flinch,  inwardly,  would  be  untrue;  but  all  that  Doane 
saw  was  a  slight  hesitation  before  the  cold  reply  came : 

"I  can  not  answer  that  question." 

"You  can  answer  the  other.  How  far  has  this 
gone?" 

Brachey  again  clamped  his  lips  shut.  The  situation, 
to  him,  had  become  inexplicable. 

"Will  you  answer?" 

"No." 

Doane's  eyes  blazed  down  wildly.  And  Doane's 
voice  broke  through  the  restraint  he  had  put  upon  it  as 
he  cried : 

"Have  you  harmed  my  little  girl?" 

Brachey  was  still. 

"Answer  me !"  Doane's  great  hand  came  down  on 
his  shoulder.  "Have  you  harmed  her?" 

Brachey's  body  trembled  under  that  hand;  he  was 
fighting  himself,  fighting  the  impulse  to  strike  with  his 
fists,  to  seize  the  lamp,  a  chair,  his  walking  stick;  he 
held  his  breath;  he  could  have  tossed  a  coin  for  his 
life;  but  then,  wandering  like  a  little  lost  breeze  among 
his  bitter  thoughts,  came  a  beginning  perception  of  the 
anguish  in  this  father's  heart.  It  confused  him,  soft- 
ened him.  His  own  voice  was  unsteady  as  he  replied : 

"Not  in  the  sense  you  mean." 

"In  what  sense,  then  ?" 


216  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Brachey  broke  away.  Doane  moved  heavily  after 
him,  but  stopped  short  when  the  slighter  man  dropped 
wearily  into  a  chair. 

"I'm  not  going  to  attack  you,"  said  Brachey,  "but 
for  God's  sake  sit  down!" 

"What  did  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Simply  this."  Brachey's  head  dropped  on  his 
hand;  he  stared  at  the  floor  of  rough  tiles.  "I  love 
her.  She  knows  it.  She  even  seems  to  return  it.  I 
have  roused  deep  feelings  in  her.  Perhaps  in  doing 
that  I  have  harmed  her.  I  can't  say." 

"Is  that  all?    You  are  telling  me  everything?" 

"Everything." 

Doane  walked  across  the  room;  came  back;  looked 
down  at  Brachey. 

"You  know  how  such  men  as  you  are  regarded,  of 
course?" 

"No.    ...    Oh,  perhaps !" 

"You  will  leave  T'ainan,  of  course." 

"Well    .    .    ." 

"There  is  no  question  about  that.     You  will  leave." 

"There's  one  question — a  man  dislikes  to  leave  the 
woman  he  loves  in  actual  danger." 

An  expression  of  bewilderment  passed  across 
Doane's  face. 

"You  admit  that  you  are  married?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Yet  you  speak  as  my  daughter's  lover.  Does  the 
fact  of  your  marriage  mean  nothing  to  you?" 

"Nothing  whatever." 


THE  PLEDGE  217 

"Oh,  you  are  planning  to  fall  back  on  the  divorce 
court,  perhaps?" 

"Yes."  Brachey's  head  came  up  then.  "Does  love 
mean  nothing  to  you?"  he  cried.  "In  your  narrow, 
hard  missionary  heart  is  there  no  sympathy  for  the 
emotions  that  seize  on  a  man  and  a  woman  and  break 
their  wills  and  shake  them  into  submission  ?" 

Looking  up,  he  saw  the  color  surge  into  Doane's 
face.  Anger  rose  there  again.  The  man  seemed  des- 
perate, bitter.  There  was  no  way,  apparently,  to  han- 
dle him ;  he  was  a  new  sort. 

Doane  crossed  the  room  again;  came  back  to  the 
middle.  He  seemed  to  be  biting  his  lip. 

"I'll  have  no  more  words  from  you,"  he  suddenly 
cried  out.  "You'll  go  in  the  morning!  I'll  have  to  take 
your  word  that  you  won't  communicate  with  Betty." 

"But,  my  God,  I  can't  just  save  myself — " 

"It  may  not  be  so  safe  for  you  or  any  of  us.  Will 
you  go?" 

"Oh    .    .    .    yes!" 

"You  will  not  try  to  see  Betty?" 

"Not  to-morrow." 

"Nor  after." 

Brachey  sprang  up ;  leaned  against  the  table ;  pushed 
the  lamp  away. 

"How  do  I  know  what  I  shall  do?" 

"I  know." 

"Oh,  you  do!" 

"Yes.  You  will  do  as  I  say.  You  are  never  to 
communicate  with  her  again." 


218  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Brachey  thought.  "I'll  say  this :  I'll  undertake  not 
to.  If  I  can't  endure  it,  I'll  tell  you  first." 

"You  can  endure  it." 

"But  you  don't  understand!  It's  a  terrible  thing! 
Do  you  think  I  wanted  to  come  out  here?  I  meant 
not  to.  But  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  came.  Is  it  noth- 
ing that  I  told  her  of  my  marriage  with  the  deliberate 
purpose  of  frightening  her  away?  But  she  is  afraid 
of  nothing." 

"No — she  is  not  afraid." 

"I  tell  you,  I've  been  torn  all  to  pieces.  Good  God, 
if  I  hadn't  been,  and  if  you  weren't  her  father,  do  you 
think  I'd  have  stood  here  to-night  and  let  you  say 
these  things  to  me!  Oh,  you  would  beat  me;  likely 
enough  you'd  kill  me ;  but  that's  nothing.  That  would 
be  easy — except  for  Betty." 

"I  have  no  time  for  heroics,"  said  Doane.  "Have 
I  your  promise  that  you  will  leave  in  the  morning, 
without  a  word  to  her?" 

"Yes." 

"I  am  going  to  Hung  Chan.  There  are  more  im- 
portant issues  now  than  your  life  or  mine.  I  shall 
be  back  to-morrow  night  and  shall  know  then  if  you 
have  failed  to  keep  your  word." 

"I  shan't  fail." 

"Very  well!  A  word  more.  You  are  not  to  stop 
at  Ping  Yang  on  your  way  out." 

"Oh?" 

"For  a  night  only.  Then  go  on.  Go  out  of  the 
province.  Go  back  to  the  coast.  Is  that  understood?" 


THE  PLEDGE  219 

Brachey  inclined  his  head. 

"I  have  your  promise  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.    Good  night,  sir." 

"Good  night." 

Doane  turned  to  the  door.  But  then  he  hesitated, 
turned,  hesitated  again,  finally  came  straight  over  and 
thrust  out  his  hand. 

Brachey,  to  his  own  amazement,  took  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DILEMMA 

1 

WHEN  DOANE  had  gone  Brachey  called  John 
and  ordered  a  mule  litter  for  eight  in  the  morn- 
ing. John  found  one  of  the  soldiers  among  the  loung- 
ing group  by  the  gate.  The  soldier  slipped  out. 

Brachey  busied  himself  until  midnight  in  packing 
his  bags.  He  felt  that  he  couldn't  sleep;  most  of  the 
later  night  was  spent  in  alternately  walking  the  floor 
and  trying  to  read.  Before  dawn  the  lamp  burned 
out;  and  he  lay  down  in  his  clothes  and  for  a  few 
hours  dreamed  wildly. 

At  eight  the  spike-studded  gates  swung  open  and  an 
Oriental  cavalcade  filed  into  the  court.  There  was  the 
litter,  like  a  sedan  chair  but  much  larger,  swung  on 
poles  between  two  mules;  the  sides  covered  with  red 
cloth,  the  small  swinging  doors  in  blue;  bells  jingling 
about  the  necks  of  the  mules.  There  were  five  or  six 
other  mules  and  asses,  each  bearing  a  wooden  pack- 
saddle.  There  was  a  shaggy  Manchurian  pony  for 
Brachey  to  ride  in  clear  weather.  Three  muleteers, 
two  men  and  a  boy,  marched  beside  the  animals ;  hardy 
ragged  fellows,  already,  or  perhaps  always,  caked  with 
dirt. 

At  once  the  usual  confusion  and  noise  began.  Mea 
220 


DILEMMA  221 

of  the  inn  crowded  about  to  help  pack  the  boxes  and 
bags  of  food  and  water  and  clothing  on  the  saddles. 
The  mules  plunged  and  kicked.  A  rope  broke  and  had 
to  be  elaborately  repaired.  The  four  soldiers  brought 
out  their  white  ponies,  saddled  them,  slung  their  car- 
bines over  their  shoulders;  they  were  handsome  men, 
not  so  ragged,  in  faded  blue  uniforms  of  baggy  Chi- 
nese cut,  blue  half -leggings,  blue  turbans.  Into  the 
litter  went  Brachey's  mattress  and  pillow.  He  tossed 
in  after  them  camera,  note-book,  and  The  Bible  in 
Spain;  then  mounted  his  savage  little  pony,  which  for 
a  moment  plunged  about  among  the  pack  animals, 
starting  the  confusion  anew. 

The  cook  mounted  one  of  the  pack-saddles,  perching 
himself  high  on  a  bale,  his  feet  on  the  neck  of  the  mule. 
John  was  about  to  mount  another,  when  the  leading 
soldier  handed  him  a  letter  which  he  brought  at  once 
to  his  master. 

Brachey  with  bounding  pulse  looked  at  the  envelope. 
But  the  address,  "Mister  J.  Brachey,  Esquire,"  was 
not  in  Betty's  brisk  little  hand. 

He  tore  it  open,  and  read  as  follows : 

"My  Dear  Sir — Taking  Time  touch  and  go  by  the 
forelock  it  becomes  privileged  duty  to  advise  you  to 
wit: 

"So-called  Lookers  and  Western  soldiers  of  that  ilk 
have  attacked  mission  college  Hung  Chan  with  crop 
up  outcome  that  these  unpleasant  fellows  go  the  limit 
in  violence.  By  telegraph  officer  of  devotion  to  His 
Excellency  this  morning  very  early  passes  the  tip  that 


222  HILLS  OF  HAN 

that  mission  college  stands  longer  not  a  whit  upon 
earth. 

"Looker  soldiers  acting  under  thumb  of  man  men- 
tioned during  our  little  chin-chin  of  yesterday  fore- 
noon plan  within  twenty- four  hours  advance  on  T'ain- 
an-fu  cutting  off  city  from  Eastern  access  and  then 
resting  on  oars,  jolly  well  taking  their  time  to  destroy 
mission  here  and  secondary  Christians,  making  clean 
job  of  it. 

"Officer  of  devotion  reports  further  of  old  reprobate 
plan  that  larger  army  has  become  nearly  ready  to 
march  full  tilt  and  devil  take  the  hindmost  on  Ping 
Yang  engineer  compound  fort  and  lay  axe  to  root 
of  it.  Railroad  and  bridges  and  all  works  of  white 
hands  will  go  way  of  wrack  and  ruin  except  telegraph, 
that  being  offspring  of  Imperial  Government. 

"And  now,  my  dear  sir,  as  Ping  Yang  is  place  of 
some  strength  and  come  on  if  you  dare,  I  would  re- 
spectfully recommend  that  you  engage  at  once  in  for- 
lorn hope  and  make  journey  post  haste  to  Ping  Yang, 
as  we  sit  on  kegs  of  gun  powder  with  ground  slipping 
out  from  under  us  as  hour-glass  runs. 

"Regretting  in  great  heaviness  and  sadness  of  heart 
that  civilization  sees  no  longer  light  of  day  in  Hansi 
Province,  I  beg  to  remain,  my  Dear  Sir, 

"Yours  most  respectfully, 

"Po  Sui-an. 

"P.  S.  In  my  busy  as  bee  excitement  I  have  neg- 
lected to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone,  and  inform 
you  that  Rev.  Doane  of  this  city  met  death  bravely 
at  3  A.  M.  to-day  at  Hung  Chan  Northern  Gate. 

"Po." 

The  cavalcade  was  ready  now,  in  line.    At  the  head 
soldiers  sat  their  ponies.     The  gay  litter  came 


DILEMMA  223 

next,  bells  jingling  as  the  mules  stirred.  Behind  the 
litter  stood  the  pack  animals,  with  John  and  the  cook 
mounted  precariously  on  the  first  two.  The  other  two 
soldiers  brought  up  the  rear.  The  muleteers  stood  la- 
zily by,  waiting.  .  .  .  Brachey  slipped  Mr.  Po's  letter 
into  a  pocket  and  gazed  up  at  the  smoke  that  curled 
lazily  from  the  chimney  of  the  innkeeper's  house.  The 
pony,  restless  to  be  off,  plunged  a  little ;  Brachey  quieted 
him  without  so  much  as  looking  down.  .  .  .  After  a 
brief  time  he  lowered  his  eyes.  A  little  girl  with  nor- 
mal feet  was  trudging  round  and  round  the  millstones, 
laboriously  grinding  out  a  double  handful  of  flour;  a 
skinny  old  woman,  in  trousers,  her  feet  mere  stumps, 
hobbled  across  the  court  with  a  stew  pan,  not  so  much 
as  looking  up  at  the  caravan  or  at  the  haughty  white 
stranger ;  ragged  men  moved  about  among  the  animals 
behind  the  manger.  The  huge  gates  had  been  swung 
open  by  coolies,  who  stood  against  them;  outside  was 
the  narrow,  deep-rutted  roadway,  with  shops  beyond. 
.  .  .  Finally,  brows  knit  as  if  he  were  at  once  hurt 
and  puzzled,  face  white,  Brachey  took  in  the  caravan 
— the  calmly  waiting  soldiers,  the  muleteers,  the  gro- 
tesquely mounted  cook  and  interpreter,  the  large,  box- 
like  vehicle  suspended  in  its  richly  dingy  colors  be- 
tween two  mules — and  then,  with  tightly  compressed 
lips  and  a  settling  frown,  he  rode  out  into  the  street 
ahead  of  the  soldiers. 

With  a  lively  jingle  of  bells  and  creakings  from  the 
litter  as  it  swayed  into  motion,  the  others  followed. 
One  of  the  soldiers  promptly  came  up  alongside 


224  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Brachey;   their   two   ponies   nearly   filled   the   street, 
crowding  passers-by  into  doorways. 

Brachey  led  the  way  out  through  the  Northern  Gate 
to  the  mission  compound.  Here  he  dismounted, 
handed  his  reins  to  a  muleteer,  and  entered  the  gate 
house. 

2 

Old  Sun  Shao-i  hurried  from  his  chair  and  barred 
the  inner  door.  Regarding  this  white  man  he  had  or- 
ders from  Mrs.  Boatwright.  Brachey,  however, 
brushed  him  carelessly  aside  and  went  on  into  the 
court. 

It  was  the  sort  of  thing,  this  walking  coolly  in,  where 
he  was  not  wanted,  that  he  did  well.  He  really  cared 
nothing  what  they  thought.  He  distrusted  profoundly 
Mrs.  Boatwright's  judgment,  and  did  not  even  consider 
sending  in  his  name  or  a  note.  The  hour  had  come 
for  meeting  her  face  to  face  and  by  force  of  will  de- 
feating her.  There  was  no  time  now  for  indulgence 
in  personal  eccentricities  on  the  part  of  any  of  these 
few  white  persons  set  off  in  a  vast,  threatening  world 
of  yellow  folk. 

Within  the  spacious  courtyard  the  sunlight  lay  in 
glowing  patches  on  the  red  tile.  Through  open  win- 
dows came  the  fresh  school-room  voices  of  girls.  At 
the  steps  of  a  small  building  at  his  right  stood  or 
lounged  a  group  of  Chinese  men  and  old  women  and 
children  —  Brachey  had  learned  that  only  by  occa- 
sional chance  is  a  personable  young  or  even  middle- 


He  led  the  way  out  through  the  northern  gate 


DILEMMA  225 

aged  woman  visible  to  masculine  eyes  in  China — 
each  apparently  with  some  ailment;  one  man  had 
eczema;  one  boy  a  goitre  that  puffed  out  upon  his 
breast,  others  with  traces  of  the  diseases  that  rage  over 
China  unchecked  except  to  a  tiny  degree  here  and  there 
in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  a  medical  mission. 
...  It  was  a  scene  of  peace  and  apparent  security. 
The  mission  organization  was  functioning  normally. 
Clearly  they  hadn't  the  news. 

A  thin  thoughtful  woman  came  out  of  a  school 
building,  and  confronted  him. 

"I  am  Mr.  Brachey,"  said  he  coldly;  "Jonathan 
Brachey." 

The  woman  drew  herself  up  stiffly. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?" 

She  was  stern;  hostile.  .  .  .  How  little  it  mat- 
tered ! 

"I  must  see  you  all  together,  at  once,"  he  said  in 
the  same  coldly  direct  manner — "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boat- 
wright,  if  you  please,  and  any  others." 

"Can't  you  say  what  you  have  to  say  to  rne,  now? 
I  am  Miss  Hemphill,  the  head  teacher." 

"No,"  he  replied,  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  relaxing. 

"May  I  ask  why  not?" 

"It  is  not  a  matter  of  individual  judgment." 

"But  Mrs.  Boatwright  will  refuse  to  see  you." 

"I  am  sorry,  but  Mrs.  Boatwright  will  have  to  see 
me  and  at  once.  And  not  alone,  if  you  please.  I  don't 
care  to  allow  her  to  dismiss  what  I  have  to  say  without 
consideration." 


226  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Miss  Hemphill  considered;  finally  went  up  into  the 
dispensary,  past  the  waiting  unfortunates  on  the  steps. 
Brachey  stood  erect,  motionless,  like  a  military  man. 
After  a  moment,  Miss  Hemphill  came  out,  followed 
by  another  woman. 

"This  is  Dr.  Cassin,"  she  said ;  adding  with  a  slight 
hesitation  as  if  she  found  the  word  unpalatable — "Mr. 
Brachey." 

The  physician  at  once  took  the  matter  in  hand. 

"You  will  please  tell  us  what  you  have  to  say,  Mr. 
Brachey.  It  will  be  better  not  to  trouble  Mrs.  Boat- 
wright." 

Brachey  made  no  reply  to  this  speech ;  merely  stood 
as  if  thinking  the  matter  over.  Then  his  eye  caught' 
a  glimpse  of  something  pink  and  white  that  fluttered 
past  an  up-stairs  window.  Then,  still  without  a  word, 
he  went  on  to  the  residence,  mounted  the  steps  and 
rang  the  bell. 

The  two  women  promptly  followed. 

"You  will  please  not  enter  this  house,"  said  Dr. 
Cassin  severely. 

A  Chinese  servant  opened  the  door. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boatwright  at  once," 
said  Brachey;  then,  as  the  servant  was  about  to  clos« 
the  door,  stepped  within. 

The  two  women  pressed  in  after  him. 

"You  are  acting  in  a  very  high-handed  manner," 
remarked  Dr.  Cassin  with  heat — "an  insolent  man- 
ner." 


DILEMMA  227 

"I  regret  that  it  is  necessary." 

"It  is  not  necessary !"  This  from  Miss  Hemphill. 

He  merely  looked  at  her,  then  away ;  stood  waiting. 

Mrs.  Boatwright  appeared  in  a  doorway. 

"What  does  this  mean  ?"  was  all  she  seemed  able  to 
say  at  the  moment. 

"Will  you  kindly  send  for  the  others" — thus 
Brachey — "Mr.  Boatwright,  any  other  whites  wh© 
may  be  here,  and — Miss  Doane." 

"Certainly  not." 

"It  is  necessary." 

"It  is  not.    Why  are  you  here?" 

"It  is  not  a  matter  for  you  to  decide.  I  must  hare 
everybody  present." 

There  was  a  rustle  from  the  stairs.  Betty,  very  pale, 
her  slim  young  person  clad  in  a  lacy  negligee  gown  of 
Japanese  workmanship,  very  quick  and  light  and  ner- 
vously alert,  came  down. 

"Will  you  please  go  back  to  your  room  ?"  cried  Mrs. 
Boatwright. 

But  the  girl,  coming  on  as  far  as  the  newel  post, 
stopped  there  and  replied,  regretfully,  even  gently,  but 
firmly: 

"No,  Mrs.  Boatwright." 

"Will  you  at  least  do  us  the  courtesy  to  dress  your- 
self properly?" 

This,  Betty,  her  eyes  straining  anxiously  toward 
Brachey,  ignored. 


228  HILLS  OF  HAN 


Dr.  Cassin  then  abruptly,  speaking  in  Chinese,  sent 
the  servant  for  Mr.  Boatwright,  and  deliberately  led 
the  way  into  the  front  room.  The  others  followed, 
without  a  word,  and  stood  about  silently  until  the 
appearance  of  Mr.  Boatwright,  who  came  in  rather 
breathless,  mopping  his  small  features. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said  to  Brachey;  and  for  an 
instant  seemed  to  be  considering  extending  his  hand ; 
but  after  a  brief  survey  of  the  grimly  silent  figures  in 
the  room,  catching  the  general  depression  in  the  social 
atmosphere,  he  let  the  hand  fall  by  his  side. 

"Now,  Mr.  Brachey,"  remarked  Dr.  Cassin,  with 
an  air  of  professional  briskness,  "every  one  is  present. 
We  are  ready  for  the  business  that  brought  you  here." 

Brachey  looked  about  the  room;  his  eyes  rested 
longest  on  the  physician.  To  her  he  handed  the  letter, 
saying  simply : 

"This  was  written  within  the  hour,  by  Po  Sui-an, 
secretary  to  His  Excellency  Pao  Ting  Chuan.  Will 
you  please  read  it  aloud,  Dr.  Cassin?" 

Then,  as  if  through  with  the  others,  he  went  straight 
over  to  Betty,  who  stood  by  the  windows.  Quickly 
and  softly  he  said  : 

"Brace  up,  little  girl !    It  is  bad  news." 

"Oh!"  she  breathed,  "is  it— is  it— father?" 

He  bowed.  She  saw  his  tightened  lips  and  the  shine 
in  his  eyes;  then  she  wavered,  fought  for  breath, 
caught  at  his  hand. 


DILEMMA  229 

Mrs.  Boatwright  was  calling  out,  apparently  to 
Betty,  something  about  taking  a  chair  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  room.  There  was  a  stir  of  confusion;  but 
above  it  Brachey's  voice  rose  sharply : 

"Read,  please,  Dr.  Cassin!" 

Soberly  they  listened.  After  beginning  the  post- 
script, Dr.  Cassin  stopped  short;  then,  slowly,  with 
considerable  effort,  read  the  announcement  of  Griggsby 
Doane's  death. 

Then  the  room  was  still. 

Mrs.  Boatwright  was  the  first  to  speak;  gently  for 
her,  and  unsteadily,  though  the  strong  will  that  never 
failed  this  vigorous  woman  carried  her  along  without 
a  sign  of  hesitation. 

"Mary,"  she  said,  addressing  Miss  Hemphill,  "you 
had  better  go  up-stairs  with  Betty." 

Dr.  Cassin,  ignoring  this,  or  perhaps  only  half-hear- 
ing it  (her  eyes  were  brimming)  broke  in  with: 

"Mr.  Brachey,  you  must  have  come  here  with  some 
definite  plan  or  purpose.  Will  you  please  tell  us  what 
it  is?" 

"No!"  cried  Mrs.  Boatwright — "no!  If  you  please, 
Mary,  this  man  must  not  stay  here.  Betty!  .  .  . 
Betty,  dear!" 

Betty  did  not  even  turn.  She  was  staring  out  the 
window  into  the  peaceful  sunflecked  courtyard,  the 
tears  running  unheeded  down  her  cheeks,  her  hand 
twisted  tightly  in  Brachey's.  He  spoke  now,  in  the 
cold  voice,  very  stiff  and  constrained,  that  masked  his 
feelings. 


230  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"The  death  of  Mr.  Doane  makes  it  clear  that  there 
is  no  safety  here.  There  is  a  chance,  to-day,  for  us  all 
to  get  safely  away.  I  have,  at  the  gate,  a  litter  and  one 
riding  horse,  also  a  few  pack  animals.  Most  of  my 
goods  can  be  thrown  aside — clothing,  all  that.  The 
food  I  have,  used  sparingly,  would  serve  for  a  number 
of  us.  We  should  be  able  to  pick  up  a  few  carts.  I 
suggest  that  we  do  so  at  once,  and  that  we  get  away 
within  an  hour,  if  possible.  We  must  keep  together, 
of  course.  I  suggest  further,  that  any  differences  be- 
tween us  be  set  aside  for  the  present." 

They  looked  at  one  another.  Miss  Hemphill  pursed 
her  lips  and  knit  her  brows,  as  if  unable  to  think  with 
the  speed  required.  Dr.  Cassin,  sad  of  face,  soberly 
thinking,  moved  absently  over  to  the  silent  girl  by  the 
window ;  gently  put  an  arm  about  her  shoulders.  Mr. 
Boatwright,  sunk  deeply  in  his  chair,  was  pulling  with 
limp  aimless  fingers  at  the  fringe  on  the  chair-arm; 
once  he  glanced  up  at  his  wife. 

"This  may  not  be  true,"  said  Mrs.  Boatwright 
abruptly. 

"It  is  from  Pao's  yamen,"  said  Miss  Hemphill. 

"But  it  may  be  no  more  than  a  rumor.  Our  first 
duty  is  to  telegraph  Mrs.  Nacy  at  Hung  Chan  and  ask 
for  full  particulars." 

"Is" — this  was  Mr.  Boatwright;  he  cleared  his 
throat — "is  there  time  ?" 

Mrs.  Boatwright's  mouth  had  clamped  shut.  No 
one  had  ever  succeeded  in  stampeding  or  even  hurrying 
her  mind.  She  had,  for  the  moment,  dismissed  the 


DILEMMA  231 

special  problem  of  Betty  and  this  man  Brachey  from 
that  mind  and  was  considering  the  general  problem. 
That  settled,  she  would  again  take  up  the  Brachey 
matter. 

"There  is  time,"  she  said,  after  a  moment.  "There 
must  be.  Mr.  Doane  left  positive  instructions  that  we 
were  to  await  his  return.  He  will  be  here  to-night  or 
to-morrow  morning,  if  he  is  alive." 

"But — my  dear" — it  was  her  husband  again — "Po 
is  careful  to  explain  that  by  to-morrow  escape  will  be 
cut  off." 

"That,"  replied  his  wife,  still  intently  thinking,  "is 
only  a  rumor,  after  all.  China  is  always  full  of  ru- 
mors. Even  if  it  is  true,  these  soldiers  are  not  likely 
to  act  so  promptly,  whatever  Po  may  think.  If  they 
should,  we  shall  be  no  safer  on  the  highway  than  here 
in  our  own  compound.  .  .  .  And  how  about  our  na- 
tives? How  about  our  girls — all  of  them?  Shall  we 
leave  them?  .  .  .  No!"  She  was  thinking,  think- 
ing. "No,  I  shall  not  go.  I  am  going  to  stay  here.  I 
shall  keep  my  word  to  Mr.  Doane." 


Then  she  rose  and  approached  the  little  group  by 
the  window.  Her  eyes,  resting  on  the  firmly  clasped 
hands  of  the  lovers,  snapped  fire.  Her  face,  again, 
was  granite.  To  Dr.  Cassin,  very  quietly,  she  re- 
marked, "Take  Betty  up-stairs,  please." 

The  physician,  obeying,  made  a  gentle  effort  to  draw 
the  girl  away ;  but  met  with  no  success. 


232  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Mrs.  Boatwrlght  addressed  herself  to  Bradley: 

"Will  you  please  leave  this  compound  at  once!" 

He  said  nothing.  Betty's  fingers  were  twisting 
within  his. 

"I  can  hardly  make  use  of  force,"  continued  Mrs. 
Boatwright,  "but  I  ask  you  to  leave  us.  And  we  do 
not  wish  to  see  you  again." 

Brachey  drew  in  a  slow  long  breath;  looked  about 
the  room,  from  one  to  another.  Miss  Hemphill  and 
Boatwright  had  risen ;  both  were  watching  him ;  the 
little  man  seemed  to  have  found  his  courage,  for  his 
chin  was  up  now. 

And  Brachey  felt,  knew,  that  they  were  a  unit 
against  him.  The  fellow-feeling,  the  community  of 
faith  and  habit  that  had  drawn  them  together  through 
long,  lonely  years  of  service,  was  stronger  now  than 
any  mere  threat  of  danger,  even  of  death.  They  felt 
with  the  indomitable  woman  who  had  grown  into  the 
leadership,  and  would  stay  with  her. 

Brachey  surveyed  them.  These  were  the  mission- 
aries he  had  despised  as  weak,  narrow  little  souls. 
Narrow  they  might  be,  but  hardly  weak.  No,  not  weak. 
Even  this  curious  little  Boatwright;  something  that 
looked  like  strength  had  come  to  life  in  him.  He 
wouldn't  desert.  He  would  stay.  To  certain  and  hor- 
rible death,  apparently.  The  very  certainty  of  the  dan- 
ger seemed  to  be  clearing  that  wavering  little  mind  of 
his.  A  thought  that  made  it  all  the  more  puzzling  was 
that  these  people  knew,  so  much  better,  so  much  more 
deeply,  than  he,  all  that  had  happened  in  1900.  Their 


DILEMMA  233 

own  friends  and  pupils — white  and  yellow — had  been 
slaughtered.  The  heart-breaking  task  of  reconstruc- 
tion had  been  theirs. 

And  at  the  same  time,  seeming  like  a  thought-strand 
in  his  brain,  was"  the  heart-breaking  pressure  of  that 
soft,  honest  little  hand  in  his.  .  .  .  Very  likely  it 
was  the  end  for  all  of  them. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  icily.  "I  am  sorry  I  can't  be 
of  use.  However,  if  any  of  you  care  to  go  I  shall 
esteem  it  a  privilege  to  share  my  caravan  with  you." 

No  one  spoke,  or  moved.  The  iron  face  of  Mrs. 
Boatwright  confronted  his. 

Very  gently,  fighting  his  deepest  desire,  righting, 
it  seemed,  life  itself,  he  tried  to  disentangle  his  fingers 
from  Betty's. 

But  hers  gripped  the  more  tightly.  There  was  a  si- 
lence. 

Then  Betty  whispered — faintly,  yet  not  caring  who 
might  hear : 

"I  can't  let  you  go." 

"You  must,  dear." 

"Then  I  can't  stay  here.  Will  you  take  me  witk 
you?" 

He  found  this  impossible  to  answer. 

"It  won't  take  me  long.  Just  a  few  things  in  a 
bag."  And  she  started  away. 

Mrs.  Boatwright  made  an  effort  to  block  her,  but 
Betty,  without  another  sound,  slipped  by  and  »ut  of 
the  room  and  ran  up  the  stairs. 

Then  Mrs.  Boatwright  turned  on  the  man. 


234  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"You  will  do  this?"  she  said,  in  firm  stinging  tones. 
"You  will  take  this  girl  away?" 

He  looked  at  her  out  of  an  expressionless  face.  Be- 
hind that  mask,  his  mind  was  swiftly  surveying  the 
situation  from  every  angle.  He  knew  that  he  couldn't, 
as  it  stood,  leave  Betty  here.  And  they  wouldn't  let 
him  stay.  He  must  at  least  try  to  save  her.  Nothing 
else  mattered. 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

Mrs.  Boatwright  turned  away.  Brachey  moved  out 
into  the  hall  and  stood  there.  To  her  "At  least  you 
will  step  outside  this  house?"  he  replied,  simply,  "No." 

Dr.  Cassin,  with  a  remark  about  the  waiting  queue 
at  the  dispensary,  went  quietly  back  to  her  routine 
work,  as  if  there  were  no  danger  in  the  world.  Mr. 
Boatwright  had  turned  to  his  wife's  desk,  and  was 
making  a  show  of  looking  over  some  papers  there. 
Miss  Hemphill  sank  into  a  chair  and  stared  at  the  wall 
with  the  memory  of  horror  in  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Boat- 
wright stood  within  the  doorway,  waiting. 

A  little  time  passed.  Then  Betty  came  running  down 
the  stairs,  in  traveling  suit,  carrying  a  hand-bag. 

Mrs.  Boatwright  stepped  forward. 

"You  really  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  will  go — alone 
—with  this  man?" 

Betty's  lips  slowly  formed  the  word,  "Yes." 

"Then  never  come  again  to  me.  I  can  not  help  you. 
You  are  simply  bad." 

Betty  turned  to  Brachey ;  gave  him  her  bag. 

Outside  the  gate  house  the  little  caravan  waited. 


DILEMMA  235 

The  mules  were  brought  to  their  knees.  Betty  stepped, 
without  a  word,  into  the  litter.  Brachey  closed  the 
side  door,  and  mounted  his  pony.  The  mules  were 
kicked  and  flogged  to  their  feet.  The  two  soldiers 
in  the  lead  set  off  around  the  city  wall  to  the  cor- 
ner by  the  eastern  gate,  whence  the  main  highway 
mounted  slowly  into  the  hills  toward  Ping  Yang.  As 
they  turned  eastward,  a  fourth  muleteer,  ragged  and 
dirty,  bearing  a  small  pack,  as  the  others,  joined  the 
party ;  a  fact  not  observed  by  the  white  man,  who  rode 
close  beside  the  litter. 

But  when  they  had  passed  the  last  houses  and  were 
out  where  the  road  began  to  sink  below  the  terraced 
grain-fields,  the  new  muleteer  stepped  forward.  For 
a  little  space  he  walked  beside  the  white  man's  pony. 

Brachey,  at  last  aware  of  him,  glanced  down  at  the 
ragged  figure. 

"It's  a  deuce  of  a  note,"  said  the  new  muleteer,  look- 
ing up  and  smiling,  "that  your  courtesy  should  return 
like  confounded  boomerang  on  your  head.  I  make 
thousands  of  apologies." 

Brachey  started ;  then  said,  merely : 

"Oh!    .    .    .    You!" 

"Indeed  I  have  in  my  own  canoe  take  French  leave. 
That  it  is  funny  as  the  devil  and  intruding  presump- 
tion I  know  full  well.  But  I  have  thought  to  be  of 
service  and  pay  my  shot  if  you  offer  second  helping  of 
courtesy  and  glad  hand." 

Brachey  nodded.    "Come  along,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    HILLS 
1 

MOST  of  the  day,  advised  by  Brachey,  Betty  kept 
closed  the  swinging  litter  doors.  The  little 
caravan  settled  into  the  routine  of  the  highway,  the 
muleteers  trudging  beside  their  animals.  The  gait  was 
a  steady  three  miles  an  hour.  John  rode  his  pack-sad- 
dle hour  after  hour,  until  six1  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
without  a  word.  Just  behind  him,  the  cook,  a  thin 
young  man  with  dreamy  eyes,  sang  quietly  a  contin- 
uous narrative  in  a  wailing,  yodling  minor  key. 

Before  the  end  of  the  first  hour  they  had  lost  sight 
of  T'ainan-fu  and  buried  themselves  in  the  hills; 
buried  themselves  in  a  double  sense,  for  wherever 
water  runs  in  Northwestern  China  the  roads  are  nar- 
row canyons.  At  times,  however,  the  way  mounted 
high  along  the  hillsides,  on  narrow  footways  of  which 
the  mules  all  instinctively  trod  the  outer  edge.  Brachey 
found  it  alarming  to  watch  the  litter  as  it  swayed  over 
some  nearly  perpendicular  precipice.  For  neither  up 
here  on  the  hillsides  nor  along  the  path  nor  in  the 
depths  below  was  there  a  sign  of  solid  rock;  it  was  all 
the  red-brown  earth  known  as  loess,  which  is  so  fine 
that  it  may  be  rubbed  into  the  pores  like  talc  or  flour 

236 


THE  HILLS  237 

and  that  packs  down  as  firmly  as  chalk.  Along  the 
sunken  ways  were  frequent  caves,  the  dwelling-places 
of  crippled,  loathsome  beggars,  with  rooms  cut  out 
square  and  symmetrical  doors  and  windows. 

In  the  high  places  one  might  look  across  a  narrow 
chasm  and  see,  decorating  the  opposite  wall,  strata  of 
the  loess  in  delicately  varied  tints  of  brown,  red,  In- 
dian red  and  crimson,  with  blurred  soft  streaks  of  buff 
and  yellow  at  times  marking  the  divisions. 
The  hills  themselves  were  steep  and  crowded  in,  as  if 
a  careless  Oriental  deity  had  scooped  together  great 
handfuls  of  brown  dice  and  thrown  them  haphazard 
into  heaps.  Trees  were  so  few — here  and  there  one 
might  be  seen  clinging  desperately  to  a  terrace-wall 
where  the  narrow  fields  of  sprouting  millet  and  early 
shoots  of  vegetables  mounted  tier  on  tier  to  the  yery 
summits  of  the  hills — that  the  general  effect  was  of  ut- 
ter barrenness,  a  tumbling  red  desert. 

Much  of  the  time  they  were  winding  through  the 
canyons  or  twisting  about  the  hillsides  with  only  an 
occasional  outlook  wider  than  a  few  hundred  yards  or 
perhaps  a  half-mile,  but  at  intervals  the  crowded  little 
peaks  would  separate,  giving  them  a  sweeping  view 
over  miles  of  shadowy  red  valleys.  ...  At  such  times 
Betty  would  open  one  of  her  windows  a  little  and  lean 
forward;  riding  close  behind,  Brachey  could  see  her 
face,  usually  so  brightly  alert,  now  sad,  peeping  oat  at 
the  richly  colored  scene. 

Frequently  they  passed  trains  of  camels  or  asses  or 
carts,  often  on  a  precipice  where  one  caravan  hugged 


238  HILLS  OF  HAN 

the  loess  wall  while  the  other  flirted  with  death  along 
the  earthen  edge.  But  though  the  Hansean  or  Chihlean 
muleteers  shouted  and  screamed  in  an  exciting  confu- 
sion of  voices  and  the  Mongol  camel  drivers  growled 
and  the  ponies  plunged,  no  animal  or  man  was  lost. 

Nearly  always  the  air  was  heavy  with  fine  red  dust. 
It  enveloped  them  like  a  fog,  penetrating  clothing, 
finding  its  way  into  packs  and  hand-bags.  At  times 
it  softened  and  exquisitely  tinted  the  view. 

At  long  intervals  the  little  caravan  wound  its  slow 
way  through  villages  that  were  usually  built  along  a 
single  narrow  street.  In  the  broader  valleys  the  vil- 
lages, gray  brown  and  faintly  red  like  the  soil  of 
which  their  bricks  had  once  been  moulded,  clung  com- 
pactly to  hill-slopes  safely  above  the  torrents  of  spring 
and  autumn,  each  little  settlement  with  its  brick  or 
stone  wall  and  its  ornamental  pagoda  gates,  and  each 
with  its  cluster  of  trees  about  some  consequential  tomb 
rising  above  the  low  roofs  in  plumes  of  pale  green 
April  foliage. 

Nowhere  was  there  a  sign  of  the  disorder  that  was 
ravaging  the  province  like  a  virulent  disease.  Brachey 
was  aware  of  no  glances  of  more  than  the  usual  pass- 
ing curiosity  from  slanting  eyes.  He  saw  only  the 
traditional  peaceful  countryside  of  the  Chinese  in- 
terior. 

This  sense  of  peace  and  calm  had  an  effect  on  his 
moody  self  that  increased  as  the  day  wore  on.  Life 
was  turning  unreal  on  his  hands.  His  judgment 
wavered  and  played  tricks  with  memory.  Had  it  been 


THE  HILLS  239 

so  dangerous  back  there  in  T'ainan?  Could  it  have 
been  ?  He  had  to  look  steadily  at  the  ragged,  trudging 
figure  of  the  erstwhile  elegant  Mr.  Po  to  recapture  a 
small  degree  of  mental  balance.  .  .  .  He  had 
brought  Betty  away.  He  saw  this  now  with  a  nervous, 
vivid  clarity  for  what  it  was,  an  irrevocable  act.  It 
had  come  about  naturally  and  simply;  it  had  felt  in- 
evitable ;  yet  now  at  moments,  unable  to  visualize  again 
the  danger  that  had  seemed  terribly  real  in  T'ainan  he 
felt  it  only  as  the  logical  end  of  the  emotional  drift 
that  had  carried  the  two  of  them  far  out  beyond  the 
confines  of  reason.  It  was  even  possible  that  Mrs. 
Boatwright's  judgment  was  the  better. 

But  Betty  couldn't  go  back  now;  they  had  turned 
her  off;  not  unless  her  father  should  yet  prove  to  be 
alive,  and  that  was  hardly  thinkable.  Anxiously  dur- 
ing the  day,  he  asked  Mr.  Po  about  that.  But  Mr. 
Po's  confidence  in  the  accuracy  of  his  information  was 
unshakable.  So  here  he  was,  with  a  life  on  his  hands, 
a  life  so  dear  to  him  that  he  could  not  control  his  mind 
in  merely  thinking  of  her  there  in  the  litter,  traveling 
along  without  a  question,  for  better  or  worse,  with 
himself;  a  life  that  perhaps,  despite  this  new  spirit  of 
consecration  that  was  rising  in  his  breast,  he  might 
succeed  only  in  injuring.  Brooding  thus,  he  became 
grave  and  remote  from  her. 

In  his  distant  way  he  was  very  considerate,  very 
kind.  During  the  afternoon,  as  they  moved  up  a  long 
valley,  skirting  a  broad  watercourse  where  peach  and 
pear  trees  foamed  with  blossoms  against  the  lower 


240  HILLS  OF  HAN 

slopes  of  the  opposite  hills,  he  persuaded  her  to  descend 
front  the  litter  and  walk  for  a  mile  or  two  with  him. 
He  felt  then  her  struggle  to  keep  cheerful  and  make 
conversation,  but  himself  lacked  the  experience  with 
women  that  would  have  made  it  possible  for  him  to 
overcome  his  own  depression  and  brighten  her.  Once, 
when  the  caravan  stopped  to  repack  a  slipping  saddle, 
he  asked  her  to  sketch  the  view  for  him.  Tt  was  his 
idea  that  she  should  be  kept  occupied  when  possible. 
He  alvrays  corrected  his  own  moods  in  that  disciplinary 
manner.  But  just  then  his  feelings  were  running  so 
high,  his  tenderness  toward  her  was  so  sensitively 
deep,  that  he  spoke  bruskly. 

They  rode  on  through  the  sunset  into  the  dusk.  The 
red  hills  turned  slowly  purple  under  the  glowing  west- 
ern sky,  swam  mistily  in  a  world-wide  sea  of  soft 
flame. 

Betty  opened  her  windows  wide  now;  gazed  out  at 
this  scene  of  unearthly  beauty  with  a  sad  deep  light  m 
her  eyes. 

2 

They  rode  into  another  village.  A  soldier  galloped 
on  ahead  to  inspect  the  less  objectionable  inn.  He  re- 
appeared soon,  and  the  caravan  jingled  and  creaked 
into  a  courtyard  and  stopped  for  the  night.  John  dis- 
mounted and  plunged  into  argument  with  the  inn- 
keeper. The  cook  set  to  work  removing  a  pack-saddle. 
Coolies  appeared.  The  mules  were  beaten  to  their 
knee*.  Brachey  threw  his  bridle  to  a  soldier  and 


THE  HILLS  341 

helped  Betty  out  of  the  litter.  Then  they  stood,  he  and 
she,  amid  the  confusion,  her  hand  resting  lightly  on  his 
arm,  her  eyes  on  him. 

Here  they  were!  He  felt  now  her  loneliness,  her 
sadness,  her — the  word  rose — her  helpless  dependence 
upon  himself.  She  wras  so  helpless!  His  heart 
throbbed  with  feeling.  He  couldn't  look  down  at  her, 
standing  there  so  close.  He  couldn't  have  spoken ;  not 
just  then.  He  was  struggling  with  the  impractical 
thought  that  he  might  yet  protect  her  from  the  savage 
tongues  of  the  coast;  from  himself,  even,  when  you 
came  to  it.  The  depression  that  had  been  pulling  him 
down  all  day  was  turning  now,  rushing  up  and  flood- 
ing his  tired  brain  like  a  bitter  tide.  He  shouldn't  have 
let  her  come.  It  had  been  a  beautiful  impulse;  her 
quiet  determination  to  give  her  life  into  his  hands  had 
thrilled  him  beyond  his  deepest  dreams  of  happiness, 
had  lifted  him  to  a  plane  of  devotion  that  he  remem- 
bered now,  felt  again,  even  in  his  bitterness,  as  utter 
beauty,  intensified  rather  than  darkened  by  the  tragic 
quality  of  the  hour.  But  he  shouldn't  have  let  her 
come !  Mightn't  she,  after  all,  have  been  as  safe  back 
there  in  the  mission  compound?  What  was  the  mat- 
ter? .  .  .  He  hadn't  thought  of  her  coming  OH  with 
him  alone.  That  had  simply  happened.  It  was  bewil- 
dering. Life  had  swept  them  out  of  commonplace 
safety,  and  now  here  they  were !  And  nothing  to  d* 
but  go  on,  go  through ! 

"Oh,  I  left  my  bag  in  there,"  he  heard  her  sagrimg, 
and  himself  got  it  quickly  from  the  litter. 


242  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Then  John  came.  The  "number  one"  rooms  were 
to  be  theirs,  it  seemed;  Betty's  and  his.  ...  If  only 
he  could  talk  to  her !  She  needed  him  so !  Never,  per- 
haps, again,  would  she  need  him  as  now,  and  he,  it 
seemed,  was  failing  her.  Silently  he  led  her  up  the 
steps  of  the  little  building  at  the  end  of  the  courtyard 
and  into  the  corridor;  peered  into  one  dim  room  and 
then  into  the  other ;  then  curtly,  roughly  ordered  John 
to  spread  for  her  his  own  square  of  new  matting. 

Her  hand  was  still  on  his  arm,  resting  there,  oh,  so 
lightly.  She  seemed  very  slim  and  small. 

"It's  a  dreadful  place,"  he  made  himself  say.  "But 
we'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  thought  she  replied. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  have  dinner  in  here.  It's  a 
little  cleaner  than  my  room." 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  then  down :  "I  don't  believe 
I  can  eat  anything." 

"But  you  must." 

"I— I'll  try." 

"I'll  ask  Mr.  Po  to  come  in  with  us.  He  is  a  gentle- 
man. And  perhaps  it  would  be  better." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  she,  "of  course." 

"Here's  John  with  hot  water.     I'll  leave  you  now." 

"You'll— comeback?" 

"For  dinner,  yes." 

With  this  he  gently  withdrew  his  arm.  As  she 
watched  him  go  her  eyes  filled.  Then  she  closed  her 
door. 


THE  HILLS  243 

Brachey  found  Mr.  Po  curled  on  the  ground  against 
a  pack-saddle,  smoking  a  Chinese  pipe. 

He  rose  at  once,  all  smiles,  and  bowed  half-way  to 
the  ground.  But  he  thought  it  inadvisable  to  accept 
the  invitation. 

"I  hate  to  be  fly  in  ointments,"  he  said,  with  his 
curiously  dispassionate  quickness  and  ease  of  speech, 
"but  it's  really  no  go.  Our  own  men  would  play  game 
of  thick  and  thin  blood  brother,  but  to  village  gossip 
monger  I  must  remain  muleteer  and  down  and  out 
person  of  no  account.  It's  a  dam'  sight  safer  for  each 
and  every  one  of  us." 

3 

Betty  tried  to  set  the  dingy  room  to  rights.  John 
had  laid  a  white  cloth  over  the  table,  and  put  out 
Brachey's  tin  plate  and  cup,  his  knife,  fork  and  spoon, 
an  English  biscuit  tin  and  a  bright  little  porcelain  jar 
of  Scotch  jam  that  was  decorated  with  a  red-and- 
green  plaid.  These  things  helped  a  little.  She  tidied 
herself  as  best  she  could;  and  then  waited. 

For  a  time  she  sat  by  the  table,  very  still,  hands 
folded  in  her  lap ;  but  this  was  difficult,  for  thoughts 
came — thoughts  that  spun  around  and  around  and  be- 
wildered her — and  tears.  The  tears  she  would  not  per- 
mit. She  got  up;  rearranged  the  things  on  the  table; 
moved  over  to  the  window,  and  through  a  hole  in  one 
of  the  paper  squares  watched  with  half -seeing  eyes  the 
coolies  and  soldiers  and  animals  in  the  courtyard.  Her 


244  HILLS  OF  HAN 

head  ached.  And  that  wheel  of  patchwork  thoughts 
spun  uncontrollably  around. 

For  a  little  time  then  the  tears  came  unhindered. 
That  her  father,  that  strong  splendid  man,  could  have 
been  casually  slain  by  vagabonds  in  a  Chinese  city 
seemed  now,  as  it  had  seemed  all  day,  incredible.  His 
loss  was  only  in  part  personal  to  her,  so  much  of  her 
life  had  been  lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  world; 
but  childhood  memories  of  him  rose,  and  pictures  of 
him  as  she  had  lately  seen  him,  grave  and  kind  and 
(since  that  moving  little  talk  about  beauty  and  its  im- 
portance in  the  struggle  of  life)  lovable.  Her  mother. 
too,  had  to-day  become  again  a  vivid  memory.  And 
then  the  sheer  mystery  of  death  twisted  and  tortured 
her  sensitive  imagination,  led  her  thoughts  out  into 
regions  so  grimly,  darkly  beautiful,  so  unbearably 
poignant,  that  her  slender  frame  shook  with  sobs. 

The  sensation  of  rootlessness,  too,  was  upon  her. 
But  now  it  was  complete.  There  was  no  tie  to  hold 
her  to  life.  Only  this  man  on  whom,  moved  by  sheer 
emotion,  without  a  thought  of  self,  yet  (she  thought 
now)  with  utter  unreasoning  selfishness,  she  had  fast- 
ened herself. 

Mrs.  Boatwright  had  called  her  bad.  That  couldn't 
be  true.  She  couldn't  picture  herself  as  that.  Even 
now,  in  this  bitter  crisis,  she  wasn't  hard,  wasn't  even 
reckless;  simply  bewildered  and  terribly  alone.  Emo- 
tion had  caught  her.  It  was  like  a  net.  It  had  carried 
her  finally  out  of  herself.  There  was  no  way  back; 
she  was  caught.  Yet  now  the  only  thing  that  had 


THE  HILLS  245 

Justified  this  step — and  how  simple,  how  easy  it  had 
appeared  in  the  morning! — the  beautiful  sober  passion 
that  had  drawn  her  to  the  one  mate,  was  clouded. 
For  he  had  changed!  He  had  drawn  away.  They 
were  talking  no  more  of  .love.  She  couldn't  reach 
him;  her  desperately  seeking  heart  groped  in  a  dim 
wilderness  and  found  no  one,  nothing.  His  formal 
kindness  hurt  her.  Nothing  could  help  her  but  love; 
and  love,  perhaps,  was  gone. 

So  the  wheel  spun  on  and  on. 

She  saw  him  talking  with  the  indomitably  courteous 
Mr.  Po.  He  came  back  then  to  the  building  they  were 
to  share  that  night.  She  heard  him  working  at  his  door 
across  the  narrow  corridor,  trying  to  close  it.  He  suc- 
ceeded ;  then  stirred  about  his  room  for  a  long  time ;  a 
very  long  time,  she  thought. 

Then  John  came  across  the  court  from  the  inn- 
keeper's kitchen  with  covered  dishes,  steaming  hot. 
She  let ,  him  in ;  then,  while  he  was  setting  out  the 
meal,  turned  away  and  once  more  fought  back  the 
tears.  Brachey  must  not  see  them.  She  was  helped 
in  this  by  a  sudden  mentally  blinding  excitement  that 
came,  an  inexplicable  nervous  tension.  He  was  com- 
ing; and  alone,  for  she  had  seen  Mr.  Po  shake  his 
head  and  settle  back  contentedly  with  his  pipe  against 
the  pack-saddle.  .  .  .  That  was  the  strange  fact 
about  love;  it  kept  rushing  unexpectedly  back  when- 
ever her  unstable  reason  had  for  a  little  while  disposed 
of  it;  an  unexpected  glimpse  of  him,  a  bit  of  his 
handwriting,  a  mere  thought  was  often  enough.  Sor- 


246  HILLS  OF  HAN 

row  could  not  check  it;  at  this  moment  her  heart 
seemed  broken  by  the  weight  of  the  tragic  world,  yet 
it  thrilled  at  the  sound  of  his  step.  And  it  couldn't 
be  wholly  selfish,  for  the  quite  overwhelming  uprush 
of  emotion  brought  with  it  a  deeper  tenderness  to- 
ward her  brave  father,  toward  that  pretty,  happy 
mother  of  the  long  ago ;  she  thought  even  of  her  school 
friends.  She  was  suddenly  stirred  with  the  desire  to 
face  this  strange  struggle  called  living  and  conquer 
it.  Her  heart  leaped.  He  was  coming! 

His  door  opened.  He  stepped  across  the  corridor 
and  tapped  at  hers.  She  hurried  to  open  it.  All  im- 
pulse, she  reached  out  a  hand;  then,  chilled,  caught 
again  in  the  dishearteningly  formal  mood  of  the  day, 
drew  it  back. 

For  he  stood  stiffly  there,  clad  in  black  with  smooth 
white  shirt-front  and  collar  and  little  black  tie.  He 
had  dressed  for  dinner. 

She  turned  quickly  toward  the  table. 

"John  has  everything  ready,"  she  said,  now  quite 
as  formal  as  he.  "We  may  as  well  sit  right  down." 


For  a  time  they  barely  spoke.  John  had  lighted 
the  native  lamp,  and  it  flickered  gloomily  in  the  swiftly 
gathering  darkness,  throwing  a  huge  shadow  of  him 
on  the  walls,  and  even  on  the  ceiling,  as  he  moved 
softly  in  his  padded  shoes  about  the  table  and  in  and 
out  at  the  door. 


THE  HILLS  247 

Betty's  mood  had  sunk,  now  at  last,  into  the  un- 
real. She  seemed  to  be  living  through  a  dream  of 
nightmare  quality — something  she  had — it  was  elu- 
sive, haunting — lived  through  before.  She  saw  Jona- 
than Brachey  distantly,  as  she  had  seen  him  at  first, 
so  bewilderingly  long  ago  on  a  ship  in  the  Inland  Sea 
of  Japan.  She  saw  again  his  long  bony  nose,  coldly 
reflective  eyes,  firmly  modeled  head.  .  .  .  And  he 
was  talking,  when  he  spoke  at  all,  as  he  had  talked  on 
the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting,  slowly,  in  some- 
what stilted  language,  pausing  interminably  while  he 
hunted  about  in  his  amazing  mind  for  the  word  or 
phrase  that  would  precisely  express  his  meaning. 

"There  is  a  village  a  short  distance  this  side  of 
Ping  Yang,  Mr.  Po  tells  me"  .  .  .  here  a  pause 
.  .  .  "not  an  important  place.  Ordinarily  we  should 
pass  through  it  about  noon  of  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row. But  he  has  picked  up  word  that  a  Looker  band 
has  been  organized  there,  and  he  thinks  it  may  be 
best  for  us  to  .  .  ."  and  here  a  pause  so  long  as  to 
become  nearly  unbearable  to  Betty.  For  a  time  she 
moved  her  fork  idly  about  her  plate,  waiting  for  that 
next  word.  At  length  she  gave  up,  folded  her  hands 
in  her  lap,  tried  to  compose  her  nerves.  After  that 
she  glanced  timidly  at  him,  then  looked  up  at  the 
wavering  shadows  on  the  dim  walls.  It  was  almost 
as  if  he  had  forgotten  she  was  there.  He  was  inter- 
ested, apparently,  in  nothing  in  life  except  those  words 
he  sought :  ".  .  .  to  make  a  detour  to  the  south." 

Betty  drew  in  a  deep  breath.    She  felt  her  color 


248  HILLS  OF  HAN 

coming  slowly  back.  The  'best  thing  to  do,  she  de- 
cided, was  to  go  on  trying  to  eat.  He  had  been  right 
enough  about  that.  She  must  try.  It  was,  in  a  way, 
her  part  of  it;  to  keep  strong.  Or  she  would  be  more 
hopelessly  than  ever  fastened  on  him.  ...  It  seemed 
to  her  as  never  before  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  a  woman. 
Tears  came  again,  and  she  fought  them  back,  even 
managed  actually  to  eat  a  little.  "It  will  mean  still 
another  .  .  ."  Another  what?  She  waited  and 
waited.  ".  .  .  another  night  on  the  road,  after  to- 
morrow. I  am  sorry." 

She  had  lately  forgotten  the  slightly  rasping  quality 
in  his  voice,  though  it  had  been  what  she  had  first 
heard  there.  Now  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  hear 
nothing  else.  .  .  .  What  blind  force  was  it  that  had 
thrust  them  so  wide  apart ;  after  those  ardent,  tender, 
heart-breaking  hours  together  at  T'ainan;  wonderful 
stolen  hours,  stirring  her  to  a  happiness  so  wildly 
beautiful  that  it  touched  creative  springs  in  her  sen- 
sitive young  soul  and  released  the  strong  eager  woman 
there.  This,  the  present  situation,  carried  her  so  far 
beyond  her  experience,  beyond  her  mental  grasp,  that, 
she  could  only  sit  very  quiet  and  try  to  weather  it.  She 
could  do  that,  of  course,  somehow.  One  did.  It  came 
down  simply  to  the  gift  of  character.  And  that,  how- 
ever undeveloped,  she  had. 

Now  and  then,  of  course,  clear  thoughts  flashed 
out  for  a  moment ;  but  only  for  a  moment  at  a  time. 
She  sensed  clearly  enough  that  his  whole  being  was 
centered  on  the  need  of  protecting  her.  It  was  the 


"It  will  mean  another  night  on  the  road" 


THE  HILLS  249 

fineness  in  him  that  made  him  hold  himself  so  rigidly 
to  the  task.  But  it  was  a  task  to  him;  that  was  the 
thing.  And  his  reticence !  It  was  his  attitude — or  was 
it  hers  ? — that  had  made  frank  talk  impossible  all  day, 
ever  since  their  moment  of  perfect  silent  understand- 
ing facing  Mrs.  Boatwright.  He  had  felt  then,  with 
her,  that  she  had  to  come,  that  it  was  their  only  way 
out ;  but  now  he,  and  therefore  she,  was  clouded  with 
afterthoughts.  They  had  come  to  be  frank  enough 
about  their  dilemma,  back  there  at  T'ainan.  But  from 
the  moment  of  leaving  the  city  gate  and  striking 
off  into  the  hills,  they  had  lost  something  vital. 
And  with  every  hour  of  this  reticence,  this  talk- 
ing about  nothing,  the  situation  was  going  to  grow 
worse.  She  felt  that,  even  now;  struggled  against 
it;  but  found  herself  moving  deeper,  minute  by  min- 
ute, into  the  gloom  that  had  settled  on  them.  .  .  . 
And  back  of  her  groping  thoughts,  giving  them  a 
puzzling  sort  of  life,  was  excitement,  energy,  the 
sense  of  being  borne  swiftly  along  on  a  mighty  wave 
of  feeling — swiftly,  swiftly,  to  a  tragic,  dim  place 
where  the  withered  shadows  of  youth  and  joy  and 
careless  laughter  caught  at  one  in  hopeless  weakness 
and  slipped  off  unheeded  into  the  unknown. 

They  came  down  at  last  to  politeness.  They  even 
spoke  of  the  food ;  and  he  reproved  John  for  not  keep- 
ing the  curried  mutton  hot.  And  then,  without  one 
personal  word,  he  rose  to  go.  She  rose,  too,  and  stood 
beside  her  chair;  she  couldn't  raise  her  eyes.  She 
heard  his  roice  saying,  coldly  she  thought: 


250  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"I  shall  leave  you  now.   You  must   .   .   ." 

She  waited,  holding  her  breath. 

".  .  .  you  must  get  what  sleep  you  can.  I  think 
we  shall  have  no  trouble  here." 

After  this  he  stood  for  a  long  moment.  She 
couldn't  think  why.  Then  he  went  out,  softly  closing 
the  door  after  him.  Then  his  door  opened,  and,  with 
some  creaking  of  rusty  hinges  and  scraping  on  the 
tiles,  closed.  And  then  Betty  dropped  down  by  the 
table  and  let  the  tears  come. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DESTINY 

1 

SHE  heard  little  more  for  several  hours;  merely 
a  muffled  stirring  about,  at  long  intervals,  as  if 
he  were  walking  the  floor  or  trying  to  move  a  chair 
very  quietly.  The  cot  on  which  she  now  so  restlessly 
lay  was  his.  She  couldn't  sleep ;  he  might  as  well  have 
it,  but  would,  of  course,  refuse.  .  .  .  She  listened 
for  a  long  time  to  the  movements  of  the  animals  in 
the  stable.  Much  later — the  gong-clanging  watchman 
had  passed  on  his  rounds  twice  at  fewest ;  it  must  have 
been  midnight — she  heard  him  working  very  softly 
at  his  door.  He  was  occupied  some  little  time  at  this. 
She  lay  breathless.  At  length  he  got  it  open,  and 
seemed  to  stand  quietly  in  the  corridor.  Then,  after 
a  long  silence,  he  opened  as  carefully  the  outer  door, 
that  had  on  it,  she  knew,  a  spring  of  bent  steel,  like 
a  bow.  After  this  he  was  still;  standing  outside,  per- 
haps, or  sitting  on  the  top  step. 

For  a  moment  she  indulged  herself  in  the  wish  that 
she  might  have  courage  to  call  to  him;  to  call  him 
by  name ;  to  call  him  by  the  name,  "John,"  she  had  no 
more  than  begun,  that  last  day  in  the  tennis  court, 

251 


252  HILLS  OF  HAN 

timidly  to  utter.  Her  whole  being  yearned  toward  him. 
She  asked  herself,  lying  there,  why  honesty  should  be 
impossible  to  a  girl.  Why  shouldn't  she  call  to  him? 
She  needed  him  so;  not  the  strange  stilted  man  of  the 
day  and  evening,  but  the  other,  deeply  tender  lover  that 
breathed  still,  she  was  almost  sure,  somewhere  within 
the  crust  that  encased  him.  And  they  had  been  honest, 
he  and  she;  that  had  turned  out  to  be  the  wonderful 
fact  in  their  swift  courtship. 

But  this  was  only  a  vivid  moment.  She  made  no 
sound.  The  warm  tears  lay  on  her  cheeks. 

After  a  little  —  it  rose  out  of  a  jumble  of  wild 
thoughts,  and  then  slowly  came  clear;  she  must  have 
been  dozing  lightly — she  heard  his  voice,  very  low; 
then  another  voice,  a  man's,  that  ran  easily  on  in  a 
soft  nervelessness,  doubtless  the  voice  of  Mr.  Po.  She 
thought  of  making  a  sound,  even  of  lighting  the  little 
iron  lamp;  they  must  not  be  left  thinking  her  safely 
asleep ;  but  she  did  nothing ;  and  the  voices  faded  into 
dreams  as  a  fitful  sleep  came  to  her.  Nature  is  mer- 
ciful to  the  young. 

2 

During  those  evening  hours,  Brachey  sat  for  the 
most  part  staring  at  his  wall.  Finally,  at  the  very 
edge  of  despair — for  life,  all  that  night,  and  the  next 
day  and  the  next  night,  offered  Brachey  nothing  but 
a  blank,  black  precipice  over  which  he  and  Betty  were 
apparently  plunging  —  he  gave  up  hope  of  falling 
asleep  in  his  chair  (important  though  he  knew  sleep  to 


DESTINY  253 

be,  in  the  grisly  light  of  what  might  yet  have  to  be 
faced)  and  went  out  and  sat  on  the  steps;  still  in  the 
grotesquely  inappropriate  dinner  costume. 

A  shape  detached  itself  from  the  shadows  of  the 
stable  door  and  moved  silently  toward  him. 

Brachey  welcomed  the  opportunity  for  a  little  man 
talk,  if  only  because  it  might,  for  the  time,  take  his 
mind  in  some  degree  out  of  the  emotional  whirlpool 
in  which  it  was  helplessly  revolving. 

"You've  heard  no  more  news?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Mr.  Po,  with  his  soft  little  laugh. 
"There  is  no  more  oil  on  fire  of  province  discontent." 

"From  your  letter  I  gathered  that  you  are  not  so 
sure  of  Pao." 

Mr.  Po  did  not  at  once  reply  to  this ;  seemed  to  be 
considering  it,  gazing  out  on  the  moonlit  courtyard. 

"It  is  no  longer  a  case  of  cat  and  mouse,"  Brachey 
pressed  on.  "Something  happened  last  night  at  the 
yamen.  Am  I  right?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

Brachey  waited.  After  a  long  pause  Mr.  Po  shifted 
his  position,  laughed  a  little,  then  spoke  as  follows : 

"In  afternoon  yesterday  old  reprobate,  Kang,  sent 
to  His  Excellency  letter  which  passed  between  my 
hands  as  secretary.  He  said  that  in  days  like  these 
of  great  sorrow  and  humiliation  agony  of  China  it 
is  best  that  those  of  responsible  care  and  devotion 
to  her  welfare  should  draw  together  in  friendship, 
and  therefore  he  would  in  evening  make  call  on  His 
Excellency  to  express  friendship  and  speak  of  meas- 


254  HILLS  OF  HAN 

ures  that  might  lay  dust  of  misunderstanding  and 
what-not." 

"Hmm!"  Thus  Brachey.  "And  what  did  that 
mean?" 

"Oh,  the  devil  to  pay  and  all!  It  was  insult  of 
blackest  nature." 

"I  don't  quite  see  that." 

"Oh,  yes.  He  should  not  have  written  in  arrogant 
put-in-your-place  way.  His  Excellency  most  gra- 
ciously gave  orders  to  prepare  ceremonial  banquet 
and  presents  of  highest  value,  but  in  his  calm  eye 
flashed  light  of  battle  to  death.  You  see,  sir,  it  was 
thought  of  Kang  to  show  all  T'ainan  and  near-by 
province  who  was  who,  taking  bull  by  horns." 

"Hmm!   I  don't  know  as  I   ...   well,  go  on." 

"In  particular  His  Excellency  made  prepare  great 
bowl  of  sweet  lotus  soup,  for  in  past  years  Kang  had 
great  weakness  for  such  soup  made  by  old  cook  of 
far-away  Canton  who  attach  to  His  Excellency  a  devil 
of  a  while  ago." 

"And  so  they  had  the  banquet?" 

"Oh,  yes,  and  I  was  privileged  to  be  in  midst." 

"You  were  there  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Banquet  was  of  great  dignity  and  cour- 
teous good  fellowship." 

"I  don't  altogether  understand  the  good  fellow- 
ship." 

"China  custom  habit  differs  no  end  from  Western 
custom  habit." 

"Naturally.  Yes.  But  what  was  Kang  really  up  to  ?" 


DESTINY  255 

"I'm  driving  at  that.  After  banquet  all  attendant 
retinue  mandarins  withdraw  out  of  rooms  except  sec- 
retaries." 

"Why  didn't  they  go  too?" 

"Oh,  well,  it  was  felt  by  Kang  that  His  Excellency 
might  put  it  all  over  him  with  knives  of  armed  men. 
And  His  Excellency  had  not  forgotten  tricky  thought 
of  Kang  in  eighteen-ninety-eight  in  Shantung  when  he 
asks  disagreement  but  very  strong  mandarins  to  ban- 
quet and  then  sends  out  soldiers  to  remove  heads  in  a 
wink  while  mandarins  ride  out  to  their  homes  when  all 
good  nights  are  said." 

"You  mean  that  Kang's  men  beheaded  all  his  dinner 
guests,  because  they  disagreed  with  him?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Here  Mr.  Po  grew  reflective.  "Kang  is 
very  queer  old  son  of  a  gun — very  tall,  very  thin, 
very  old,  with  face  all  lines  that  come  down  so" — he 
drew  down  his  smooth  young  face  in  excellent  mim- 
icry of  an  old  man — "and  he  stoops  so,  and  squints 
little  sharp  eyes  like  river  rat,  so.  A  mighty  smart 
man,  the  reprobate!  Regular  old  devil!"  Mr.  Po 
laughed  a  little.  "My  bosom  friend  Chih  Tang  slipped 
himself  in  to  me  and  explained  in  whisper  talk  that 
yamen  of  His  Excellency  was  surrounded  by  Western 
soldiers  of  that  old  Manchu  devil.  And  within  yamen, 
up  to  third  gate  itself,  swarmed  a  hell  of  a  crowd 
of  Manchu  guard  of  Kang.  It  was  no  joke,  by  thun- 
der!" 

"I  should  say  not,"  observed  Brachey  dryly.  "You 
were  going  to  tell  me  what  Kang  was  really  up  to." 


256  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Ofa,  yes !  I  will  tell  that  post  haste.  When  all  had 
gone  except  four — " 

"That  is,  Kang,  and  His  Excellency,  and  tw*  secre- 
taries ?" 

"Yes,  of  whom  it  was  my  honor  to  be  absurdly 
small  part.  Then  Kang  explained  with  utmost  eti- 
quette courtesy  to  His  Excellency  that  letter  had  but 
yesterday  come  to  him  of  most  hellish  import  and  very 
front  rank.  And  his  secretary  handed  cool  as  you 
please  letter  to  me  and  I  to  His  Excellency.  It  was 
letter  of  Prince  Tuan  to  old  Kang  giving  him  power 
to  have  beheaded  at  once  His  Excellency." 

"To  behead  Pao?" 

"Oh,  yes!  And  Kang  said  in  neat  speech  then  that 
no  one  could  imagine  his  heartsick  distress  that  one 
in  power  should  wish  great  headless  injury  to  dear 
old  friend  of  long  years  and  association  government. 
To  him  he  said  it  meant  hell  to  pay.  And  he  asked 
that  His  Excellency  pass  over  from  own  hand  in- 
famous letter  to  be  destroyed  on  spot  by  own  hand  of 
himself  with  firm  resolve.  But  His  Excellency  smiled 
— a  dam'  big  man! — and  said  for  letter  of  Prince 
Tuan  he  felt  only  worshipful  respect  and  obedience 
spirit,  and  he  gave  letter  to  me,  and  I  delivered  it  to 
secretary  of  Kang,  and  secretary  of  Kang  delivered 
it  to  old  Manchu  himself.  Then  Kang,  with  own 
hands  tore  letter  to  bits  and  dropped  bits  in  bovrl,  and 
his  secretary  asked  me  to  have  servant  burn  them,  but 
I  put  on  courteous  look  of  attention  to  slightest  wish 


DESTINY  257 

of  His  Excellency  and  do  not  hear  low  word  of  secre- 
tary to  old  devil.  And  then  Manchu  reprobate  with 
great  courtesy  makes  farewell  ceremony  and  goes  out 
to  his  chair  and  altogether  it's  a  hell  of  a  note." 

Brachey,  in  his  deliberately  reflective  way,  put  the 
curious  story  together  in  his  mind. 

"Kang,  of  course,  sent  to  Peking  for  that  letter," 
he  said. 

"Oh,  yes." 

"It  was,  in  a  way,  fair  warning  to  Pao  that  the 
time  had  come  for  action  and  that  Pao  had  better  not 
try  to  meddle." 

"Oh,  yes — all  of  that.  When  he  had  gone  Pao  was 
sad.  For  he  knew  now  that  Kang  had  on  his  side 
heavy  hand  of  Imperial  Court  at  Peking.  And  then, 
late  in  night  we  have  word  from  yamen  of  Kang  and 
other  word  from  observing  officers  of  His  Excellency 
that  Western  soldiers  make  attack  at  Hung  Chan  and 
that  Reverend  Doane  is  killed  at  city  gate.  Old  Kang 
express  great  regret  consideration  and  shed  tears  of 
many  crocodiles,  but  they  don't  go." 

"And  Pao  found  himself  powerless  to  interfere." 

"Oh,  yes !  And  so  then  I  had  audience  of  His  Excel- 
lency and  with  permission  of  his  mouth  sent  letter  to 
you.  His  Excellency  formed  opinion  right  off  the 
reel  that  it  is  not  wise  to  send  warning  to  mission  com- 
pound, and  that  if  I  ever  send  word  to  you  my  head 
would  not  longer  be  of  much  use  to  me  in  Tainan." 

"Need  they  know  of  it  at  Kang's  yamen?" 


258  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"There  can  not  be  secrets  in  yamen  of  great  man- 
darin from  observation  eyes  of  other  mandarin.  Noth- 
ing doing!" 

"Oh,  I  see.   Spying  goes  on  all  the  time,  of  course." 

"Oh,  yes!  So  I  say  farewell  with  tears  to  His  Ex- 
cellency, and  in  these  old.  clothes  of  great  disrepute, 
I" — he  chuckled — "I  make  my  skiddoo."  From  within 
the  rags  about  his  body  he  drew  a  soiled  roll  of  paper. 
"It  has  occurred  to  me  that  at  Ping  Yang  time  might 
roll  around  heavily  on  your  hands  and  then,  if  you 
don't  care  what  fool  thing  you  do,  you  might  bring 
me  great  honor  by  reading  this  silly  little  thing.  It  is 
lecture  of  which  I  spoke  lightly  once  too  often." 

Absently  Brachey  took  it.  "But  why  can't  old  Kang 
see,"  he  asked — "and  Prince  Tuan,  for  that  matter — 
that  if  they  are  to  start  in  again  slaughtering  white 
people,  they  will  simply  be  piling  up  fresh  trouble  for 
China?  Pao,  I  gather,  does  see  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  His  Excellency  sees  very  far,  but  now  he 
must  sit  on  fence  and  wait  a  bit.  Kang,  like  Prince 
Tuan,  is  of  the  old." 

"Didn't  the  outcome  of  the  Boxer  trouble  teach 
these  men  anything?" 

"Not  these  men.  Old  China  mind  is  not  same  as 
Western  progress  mind — " 

"I  quite  understand  that,  but    .    .    ." 

Mr.  Po  was  slowly  shaking  his  head.  "No,  old 
China  minds  dwell  in  different  proposition.  It  is  hard 
to  say." 


DESTINY  259 

3 

Toward  morning,  before  his  lamp  burned  out, 
Brachey  read  the  lecture  to  which  Mr.  Po  was  pinning 
such  great  hopes.  It  seemed  rather  hopeless.  There 
was  humor,  of  course,  in  the  curious  arrangement  of 
English  words ;  but  this  soon  wore  off. 

Later,  sitting  in  the  dark,  waiting  for  the  first 
faint  glow  of  dawn,  and  partly  as  an  exercise  of  will, 
he  pondered  the  problems  clustering  about  the  little, 
hopeful,  always  aggressive '  settlements  of  white  in 
Chinese  Asia.  Mr.  Po's  phrases  came  repeatedly  to 
mind.  That  one — "Old  China  mind  dwell  in  different 
proposition."  Mr.  Po  was  touching  there,  consciously 
or  not,  on  the  heart  of  the  many-tinted  race  problems 
which  this  bafflingly  complex  old  world  must  one  day 
either  settle  or  give  up.  The  inertia  of  a  numerous, 
really  civilized  and  ancient  race  like  the  Chinese  was 
in  itself  a  mighty  force,  one  of  the  mightiest  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  Men  like  Prince  Tuan  and  this  Kang 
despised  the  West,  of  course.  And  with  some  reason, 
when  you  came  down  to  it.  For  along  Legation  Street 
the  whites  dwelt  in  a  confusion  of  motives.  They  had 
exhibited  a  firm  purpose  only  when  Legation  Street 
itself  was  attacked.  By  no  means  all  the  stray  casual- 
ties among  the  whites  in  China  were  avenged  by  their 
governments.  In  the  present  little  crisis  out  here  in 
Hansi,  it  might  be  a  long  time — a  very  long  time  in- 
deed— before  the  lumbering  machinery  of  government 


260  HILLS  OF  HAN 

could  be  stirred  to  act  in  an  unaccustomed  direction. 
At  the  present  time  there  were  not  enough  American 
troops  in  China  to  make  possible  a  military  expedition 
to  Ping  Yang;  merely  a  company  of  marines  at  the 
legation.  To  penetrate  so  far  inland  and  maintain 
communication  an  army  corps  would  be  needed ; 
troops  might  even  have  to  be  assembled  and  trained 
in  America.  It  might  take  a  year.  And  first  the  dip- 
lomats would  have  to  investigate;  then  the  State 
Department  would  have  to  be  brought  by  heavy  and 
complicated  public  pressures  to  the  point  of  actually 
functioning;  a  sentimental  element  back  home  might 
question  the  facts.  .  .  .  Meantime,  he  hadn't  yet  so 
much  as  got  Betty  safely  to  Ping  Yang. 

It  was  "hard  to  say."  But  he  found  objective 
thought  helpful.  Emotion  seemed,  this  night,  not  un- 
like a  consuming  fire.  Emotion  was,  in  its  nature,  de- 
sire. It  led  toward  destruction. 

He  even  made  himself  sleep  a  little,  in  a  chair;  until 
John  knocked,  at  seven.  Then  he  changed  from  eve- 
ning dress  to  knickerbockers.  His  spirit  had  now  sunk 
so  low  that  he  had  John  serve  them  separately  with 
breakfast. 

When  the  caravan  was  ready  he  went  out  to  the 
courtyard  and  busied  himself  preparing  the  litter  for 
her.  She  came  out  with  John,  very  white,  glancing  at 
him  with  a  timid  question  in  her  eyes.  In  his  stiffest 
manner  he  handed  her  into  the  litter. 

Then,  accompanied  by  three  soldiers,  they  swung 
out  on  the  highway.  The  fourth  soldier  joined  them 


DESTINY  261 

outside  the  wall;  him  Brachey  had  sent  to  the  tele- 
graph station  with  a  message  to  his  Shanghai  bankers 
advising  them  that  his  address  would  be  in  care  of 
M.  Pourmont,  the  Ho  Shan  Company,  Ping  Yang, 
Hansi,  and  further  that  cablegrams  from  America 
were  to  be  forwarded  immediately  by  wire. 


Only  at  intervals  during  the  forenoon  did  Betty 
and  Brachey  speak;  for  the  most  part  he  rode  ahead 
of  the  litter.  The  luncheon  hour  was  awkward;  the 
dinner  hour,  when  they  had  settled  at  their  second 
inn,  was  even  more  difficult.  They  sat  over  their  tin 
plates  and  cups  in  gloomy  silence. 

Finally  Betty  pushed  her  plate  away,  and  rose ;  went 
over  to  the  papered  window  and  stared  out. 

Brachey  got  slowly  to  his  feet;  stood  by  the  table. 
He  couldn't  raise  his  eyes;  he  could  only  study  the 
outline  of  his  plate  and  move  it  a  little,  this  way  and 
that,  and  pick  up  crumbs  from  the  table-cloth.  His 
mind  was  leaden ;  the  sense  of  unreality  that  had  come 
to  him  on  the  preceding  day  was  now  at  a  grotesque 
climax.  He  literally  could  not  think.  This,  he  felt, 
was  the  final  severe  test  of  his  character,  and  it  ex- 
hibited him  as  a  failure.  He  was  then,  after  all,  a 
lone  wolf ;  his  instinct  had  been  sound  at  the  start,  his 
nature  lacked  the  quality,  the  warmth  and  richness  of 
feeling,  that  the  man  who  would  claim  a  woman's 
love  must  offer  her.  He  could  suffer — the  pain  that 


262  HILLS  OF  HAN 

even  now,  as  he  stood  listless  there,  downcast,  heavily 
fingering  a  tin  plate,  was  torturing  him  to  the  limits  of 
his  capacity  to  endure,  told  him  that — but  suffering 
seemed  a  poor  gift  to  bring  the  woman  he  loved.  .  .  . 
And  here  they  were,  unable  to  turn  back.  It  was  un- 
thinkable ;  yet  it  was  true.  His  reason  kept  thundering 
at  his  ear  the  perhaps  tragic  fact  that  his  spirit  was  un- 
able to  grasp.  .  .  .  Brachey,  during  this  hour — with 
a  bitterness  so  deep  as  to  border  on  despair — told  him- 
self that  his  lack  amounted  to  abnormality.  His  case 
seemed  quite  hopeless.  Yet  here  he  was;  and  here, 
irrevocably,  was  she.  The  harm,  whatever  it  might 
prove  to  be,  and  in  spite  of  his  sensitive,  fine  conquest 
of  their  emotional  problem  (at  such  a  price,  this !)  was 
done.  And  there  were  no  compensations.  Here  they 
were,  lost,  groping  helplessly  toward  each  other 
through  a  dark  labyrinth. 

Even  when  she  turned  (he  heard  her,  and  felt  her 
eyes)  he  could  not  look  up. 

Then  he  heard  her  voice;  an  unsteady  voice,  very 
low ;  and  he  felt  again  the  simple  honesty,  the  naively 
child-like  quality,  that  had  seemed  her  finest  gift.  It 
was  the  artist  strain  in  her,  of  course.  She  was  not 
ashamed  of  her  feeling,  of  her  tears;  there  had  never 
been  pretense  or  self-consciousness  in  her.  And  while 
she  now,  at  first,  uttered  merely  his  name — "John!" 
— his  inner  ear  heard  her  saying  again,  as  she  had  said 
during  their  first  talk  in  the  tennis  court — "I  wonder 
if  it  is  like  a  net."  .  .  .  Yes,  she  seemed  to  be  say- 
ing that  again. 


DESTINY  36? 

But  he  was  speaking;  out  of  a  thick  throat : 

"Yes?" 

"What  are  we  to  do?" 

He  met  this  with  a  sort  of  mental  dishonesty  that 
he  found  himself  unable  to  avoid.  "Well — if  all  goes 
well,  we  shall  be  safe  at  Ping  Yang  within  forty-eight 
hours." 

"I  don't  mean  that." 

"Well    .    .    ." 

"I  shouldn't  have  come." 

"I  couldn't  leave  you  there,  dear.  Not  there  at 
T'ainan." 

"It  wasn't  you  who  made  the  decision." 

"Oh,  yes—" 

"No,  I  did  it.    It  seemed  the  thing  to  do." 

He  managed  to  look  up  now,  but  could  not  know 
how  coolly  impenetrable  he  appeared  to  be.  "It  war 
the  thing." 

She  slowly  shook  her  head.  "No  .  .  .  »•,  I 
shouldn't  have  come." 

"I  can't  let  you  say  that." 

"It's  true.    Can't  we  be  honest  ?" 

The  question  stung  him.  He  dropped  again  into  his 
chair  and  sat  for  a  brief  time,  thinking,  thinking,  in 
that,  to  her,  terribly  deliberate  way  of  his. 

"You're  right,"  he  finally  came  out.  "We've  got  to 
be  honest.  It's  the  only  thing  left  to  us,  apparently. 
.  ,  .  The  mistake  lay  back  there  in  T'ainan.  Our 
first  talk  in  the  tennis  court.  I  knew  then  that  the 
thing  for  me  to  do  was  to  go." 


264  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"I  didn't  let  you." 

"But  I  should  have.  That  situation  was  the  same  as 
this,  only  then  we  hadn't  crossed  our  Rubicon.  Now 
we  have.  Don't  you  see?  This  situation  has  followed 
that,  inevitably.  And  now  we  no  longer  have  the 
power  to  choose.  We've  got  to  go  on,  at  least  as  far 
as  Ping  Yang.  But  we  mustn't  be  together — 

She  glanced  at  him,  then  away. 

" — no,  not  even  like  this.  We  have  no  right  to  in- 
dulge our  moods.  I'm  going  to  be  really  honest  now. 
We're  in  danger  from  these  natives,  yes.  But  that's  a 
small  thing." 

She  moved  a  hand.  "Of  course  .  .  ."  she  mur- 
mured. 

"The  real  danger  is  to  you.  And  from  me.  Oh, 
my  God,  child,  you're  in  danger  from  me !"  He  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands;  then,  after  a  moment, 
"-teadied  himself,  and  rose.  "I  can't  stay  here  and  talk 
with  you  like  this.  I  can't  even  help  you.  Already 
I've  injured  your  name  beyond  repair." 

She  broke  in  here  with  a  low-voiced  remark  the  ma- 
ture character  of  which  he  did  not,  in  his  self-absorp- 
tion, catch.  "I  don't  believe  you  know  modern  girls 
very  well." 

He  went  on :  "So  you  see,  I've  hurt  you,  and  now, 
when  you  need  me  most — oh,  I  know  that! — I'm  fail- 
ing you.  It's  been  a  terrible  mistake.  But  it's  my  job 
to  get  you  to  Ping  Yang.  That's  all.  No  good  talk- 
ing. I'll  go  now." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't." 


DESTINY  265 

"I  must.  I — there  we  are !  I'm  failing  you,  that's 
all." 

"I  wonder  if  we're  talking — or  thinking — about  the 
same  things." 

"Child,  you're  young !  You  don't  understand !  You 
don't  seem  to  see  how  I've  hurt  you !" 

"I  think  I  see  what  you  mean.  But  that — it  might 
be  difficult,  of  course,  for  a  while,  but  it  isn't  what  I've 
been  thinking  of.  No,  please  let  me  say  this!  It 
wouldn't  be  fair  not  to  give  me  my  chance  to  be  honest 
too.  As  for  that — hurting  me — I  came  with  my  eyes 
open." 

"Oh,  Betty—" 

"Please!.  I  did.  I  deliberately  decided  to  come  with 
you.  I  knew  they'd  talk,  but  I  didn't  care — much. 
You  see  I  had  already  made  up  my  mind  that  we  were 
to  be  married.  We'd  have  to  be,  once  you  were  free. 
The  way  we've  felt.  You  came  way  out  here,  and 
then  you  didn't  go." 

"That  was  weakness." 

"You  can  call  it  weakness,  or  something  else.  But 
I'm  in  the  same  boat.  And  if  we  couldn't  let  each 
other  go  then,  it  was  bound  to  grow  harder  every  day. 
I  had  to  recognize  that.  That  was  where  I  crossed  my 
Rubicon.  Nothing  else  mattered  very  much  after  that. 
I  came  with  you  because  I  was  all  alone,  and  misera- 
ble, and — oh,  I  may  as  well  say  it  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes,  honesty's  the  only  thing  now." 

"Well,  I  simply  had  to.  I  couldn't  face  life  any 
other  way.  I've  been  thinking  it  over  and  over  and 


266  HILLS  OF  HAN 

over.  I  see  it  now.  I  was  just  selfish.  Love  is  sel- 
fishness, apparently.  I  fastened  myself  on  you.  I 
knew  you  had  to  have  solitude,  but  I  didn't  seem  t* 
care.  Perhaps  you've  hurt  me.  I  don't  know.  But 
I  am  beginning  to  see  that  I've  wrecked  your  life.  I'm 
your  job,  now,  just  as  you  said.  All  those  things  you 
said  on  the  ship  have  been  coming  up  in  my  mind  yes- 
terday and  to-day.  Don't  you  suppose  I  can  see  it? 
My  whole  life  right  now  is  a  demand  on  you."  Her 
tone  was  not  bitter,  but  sad,  unutterably  sad.  "You 
said,  'Strength  is  better.'  I'm  running  up  with  you 
now  a  'spiritual'  debt  greater  than  I  can  ever  pay.  You 
said,  'If  any  friend  of  mine — man  or  woman — can't 
win  his  own  battles,  he  or  she  had  better  go.  To  hell, 
if  it  comes  to  that.' ' 

She  was  looking  full  at  him  now,  wide-eyed ;  stand- 
ing rigid,  her  hands  extended  a  little  way. 

There  was  a  long  silence;  then,  abruptly,  without  a 
word,  without  even  a  change  of  expression  on  his 
gloom/  face,  he  left  the  room. 


That  night  was  Betty's  Gethsemane.  Again  and 
again  she  lived  through  their  strange  quarrel  over  the 
half-eaten  dinner  here  in  her  room.  Her  mind  phrased 
and  rephrased  the  wild  strong  things  she  had  said  t» 
him.  And  these  phrases  now  stung  her,  hurt  her,  as 
had  none  of  his. 

But  once  again,  after  hours  of  tossing  on  the  nar- 


DESTINY  267 

row  folding  cot — his  cot — sleep  of  a  sort  came  to  her. 
She  did  not  wake  until  half  a  hundred  beams  of  sun- 
shine were  streaming  in  through  the  dilapidated  paper 
squares. 

She  rose  and  peeped  out  into  the  courtyard.  They 
were  packing  one  of  the  saddles;  John,  and  cook,  and 
a  soldier.  Brachey  was  not  in  sight.  He  would  be  in 
his  room  then,  across  the  corridor.  She  wondered  if 
he  had  slept  at  all,  then  glanced  guiltily  at  the  cot.  He 
would  hardly  lie  on  the  unclean  kang;  very  likely  he 
had  been  forced  to  doze  in  a  chair  these  two  nights, 
while  she?  .found  some  real  rest.  There,  again,  she 
was  using"  Rim,  taking  from  him ;  and  all  he  had  asked 
of  life  was  solitude,  peace.  For  that  he  had  foregone 
friends,  a  home,  his  country. 

Then  her  eyes  rested  on  a  bit  of  white  paper  under 
the  door.  She  quickly  drew  it  in,  and  read  as  follows : 

"My  DEAR,  DEAR  LITTLE  GIRL — 

"As  you  of  course  saw  this  evening,  it  is  simply  im- 
possible for  me  to  speak  rationally  in  matters  of  the 
affections.  It  is  equally  clear  that  by  indulging  my 
feelings  toward  you  I  have  brought  you  nothing  but 
unhappiness.  This  was  inevitable.  As  I  wrote  you 
before  I  am  not  a  social  being.  This  fact  was  never  so 
clear  as  now.  I  must  be  alone. 

"As  regards  the  statements  you  have  just  made,  in- 
dicating that  you  attach  the  blame  for  the  present  pre- 
dicament to  yourself,  these  are,  of  course,  absurd. 
I'm  sure  you  will  come  in  time  to  see  that.  It  will  be 
a  question  then  whether  you  will  be  able  to  bring  your- 
self to  forgive  me  for  permitting  matters  to  go  so  far 


268  HILLS  OF  HAN 

as  they  have.  That  has  been  my  weakness.  I  allowed 
my  admiration  for  you  and  my  desire  for  you  to  over- 
come my  reason. 

"As  for  the  course  you  must  pursue,  it  will  be,  of 
course,  to  go  on  as  far  as  Ping  Yang.  There  I  will 
leave  you.  It  may  even  prove  possible,  despite  the 
malignant  enmity  of  Mrs.  Boatwright,  to  convince 
M.  Pourmont  and  the  others  that  we  are  guilty  of 
nothing  more  than  an  error  of  judgment  in  an  ex- 
tremely difficult  situation.  Certainly  I  shall  demand 
the  utmost  respect  for  you. 

"I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  avoid  you  in  the  morning ; 
and  it  will  undoubtedly  be  best  that  we  refrain  so 
far  as  possible  from  speech  during  the  remainder  of 
our  journey.  I  shall  go  on  alone,  as  soon  as  you  are 
safe  at  Ping  Yang.  I  can  not  forgive  myself  for  thus 
disturbing  your  life. 

"I  can  not  trust  myself  to  write  further.  It  is  my 
experience  that  words  are  dangerous  things  and  not  to 
be  trifled  with.  I  will  merely  add,  in  conclusion,  and 
in  wishing  that  you  may  at  some  later  time  find  a  mate 
who  can  bring  into  your  life  the  qualities  which  you 
must  have  in  order  to  attain  happiness,  and  which  I 
unquestionably  lack,  that  I  shall  hope,  in  time,  for 
your  forgiveness.  Without  that  I  should  hardly  care 
to  live  on.  JONATHAN  BRACHEY." 

Soberly  Betty  read  and  reread  this  curious  letter. 
Then  for  a  moment  her  eyes  rested  on  the  cool  signa- 
ture, without  so  much  as  a  "sincerely  yours,"  and  then 
she  looked  at  that  first  phrase,  "My  Dear,  Dear  Little 
Girl" ;  and  then  her  eyes  grew  misty  and  she  smiled, 
faintly,  tenderly.  Suddenly,  this  morning,  life  had 
changed  color ;  the  black  mood  was  gone,  like  an  illness 


DESTINY  269 

that  had  passed  its  climax.  The  curious  antagonism 
in  their  talk  the  evening  before  had,  it  seemed,  cleared 
the  air — at  least  for  her.  And  now,  all  at  once — she 
was  beginning  to  feel  quietly  but  glowingly  exultant 
about  it — nothing  mattered. 

She  ate  all  the  breakfast  that  John  brought;  then 
hurried  out.  It  gave  her  pleasure  to  stand  aside  and 
watch  the  packing,  and  particularly  to  watch  Brachey 
as  he  moved  sternly  about.  He  was  a  strong  man,  as 
her  father  had  been  strong.  He  hadn't  a  glimmer  of 
humor,  but  she  loved  him  for  that.  He  had  all  at  once 
become  so  transparent.  In  his  lonely  way  he  had  ex- 
pended so  much  energy  fighting  the  illusions  of  happi- 
ness, that  now  when  real  happiness  was  offered  him  he 
fought  harder  than  ever.  Her  thoughtful  eyes  fol- 
lowed his  every  motion;  he  was  tall,  strong,  clean. 
His  heart  and  mind,  in  their  very  austerity,  were  like 
a  child's. 

So  deep  ran  this  sober  new  happiness,  as  she  stood 
by  the  litter  waiting  until  he  came — austerely — and 
helped  her  in  (she  was  waiting  for  the  touch  of  his 
hand,  averting  her  face  to  hide  the  smile  that  she 
couldn't  altogether  control)  that  only  a  warmly  up- 
rushing  little  thought  of  her  father  that  came  just  then 
could  restore  her  poise.  She  cared  now  about  nothing 
else,  about  only  this  man  whom  she  now  knew  she 
loved  with  her  whole  being  and  the  father  she  had  so 
suddenly,  shockingly  lost.  If  only,  in  the  different 
ways,  she  might  have  brought  happiness  to  each  of 
these  strong  men.  If  only  she  could  have  brought 


270  HILLS  OF  HAN 

them  together,  her  father  and  her  lover ;  for  each,  she 
felt,  had  fine  deep  qualities  that  the  other  would  be 
quick  to  perceive. 

All  during  the  morning,  feeling  through  every  sen- 
sitive nerve-tip  the  nearness  of  this  man  who  loved  her 
and  whom  she  loved,  she  rode  through  a  land  of  rosy 
dreams.  She  felt  again  the  power  over  life  that  she 
had  felt  during  their  first  talk  at  T'ainan.  Love  had 
come;  it  absorbed  her  thoughts;  it  was  right.  .  .  . 
She  exulted  in  the  misty  red  hills  with  their  deep  pur- 
ple shadows.  She  smiled  at  the  absurd  camels  with 
the  rings  in  their  noses  and  the  ragged,  shaggy  coats. 

After  a  time,  as  the  morning  wore  along,  she  became 
aware  that  he,  too,  was  changing.  Once,  when  he  rode 
for  a  moment  beside  her  litter,  he  caught  sight  of  her 
quietly  radiant  face  and  flushed  and  turned  away.  At 
lunch,  by  a  roadside  temple,  under  a  tree,  they  talked 
about  nothing  with  surprising  ease.  He  was  eager 
that  she  should  draw  and  paint  these  beautiful  hills 
of  Hansi. 

Late  in  the  afternoon — they  were  riding  dovrn  aa 
open  valley — he  appeared  again  beside  the  litter.  Im- 
pulsively she  reached  out  her  hand.  He  guided  his 
pony  close ;  leaned  over  and  gripped  it  warmly.  For  a. 
little  while  they  rode  thus;  then,  happening  out  of  a 
confusion  of  impulses  that,  with  whichever  it  began, 
was  instantly  communicated  to  the  other,  he  bent  down 
and  she  leaned  out  the  little  side  door  and  their  lips 
met. 
.  The  cook,  from  his  insecure  seat  on  the  pack-saddle, 


DESTINY  271 

carolled  his  endless  musical  narrative.  John  rode  in 
stolid  silence;  the  merely  human  emotions  were  ages 
old  and  quite  commonplace.  Mr.  Po  merely  glanced 
up  as  he  trudged  along  in  the  dust,  taking  the  little  in- 
cident calmly  for  granted. 

So  it  was  that,  unaccountably  to  themselves,  the 
spirits  of  these  two  lovers  rebounded  from  acute  de- 
pression to  an  exaltation  that,  however  sobered  by  cir- 
cumstance, touched  the  skirts  of  ecstasy.  They  rode 
on  silently  as  on  the  other  days>  but  now  their  hearts 
beat  in  happy  unison.  No  longer  was  the  situation  of 
their  relationship  unreal  to  them;  the  unreality  lay 
with  the  white  world  from  which  they  had  come  and 
to  which  they  must  shortly  return.  The  mission  com- 
pound was  but  an  immaterial  memory,  like  an  unpleas- 
ant moment  in  a  long,  beautiful  journey. 

In  the  evening  after  dinner,  they  sat  for  a  long  time 
with  her  head  on  his  shoulder  dreamily  talking  •£  the 
mystery,  their  mystery,  of  love. 

"It  had  to  be,"  she  said. 

He  could  only  incline  his  head  and  compress  his  lips 
as  he  gazed  out  over  her  head  down  a  long  vista  of 
years,  during  which  he  would,  for  better  or  worse,  for 
richer  or  poorer,  protect  and  cherish  her.  The  old 
phrases  from  the  marriage  service  rang  in  his 
thoughts  like  cathedral  bells. 

"I  don't  believe  we'll  ever  have  those  dreadful 
moods  again,"  she  murmured,  later.  "At  least,  we 
won't  misunderstand  each  other  again.  Not  like  that." 

"Never,"  he  breathed. 


272  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Only  one  thing  is  wrong,  dear,"  she  added.  "I 
wish  father  could  have  known  you.  He'd  have  under- 
stood you.  That's  the  only  sad  thing." 

He  was  silent.  At  last,  after  midnight,  in  a  spirit 
of  deepest  consecration,  he  held  her  gently  in  his  arms, 
kissed  her  good  night,  and  went  to  his  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


APPARITION 


MEANTIME,  M.  Pourmont,  at  Ping  Yang,  was 
calling  in  his  white  assistants  and  sifting  out 
the  trustworthy  among  his  native  employees  in  prepa- 
ration for  withstanding  a  siege.  He  had  swiftly  car- 
ried out  his  plan  of  destroying  the  native  huts  that 
stood  within  a  hundred  yards  of  his  compound.  Such 
lumber  and  bricks  as  were  of  any  value  he  had  brought 
into  the  compound,  using  them  to  build  two  small  re- 
doubts at  opposite  corners  of  the  walled-in  rectangle 
and  to  increase  the  number  of  firing  positions  along  the 
walls.  From  the  redoubts  the  faces  of  the  four  walls 
and  all  of  the  hillside  were  commanded  by  the  two  ma- 
chine guns.  A  wall  of  bricks  and  sand-bags  was  built 
up  just  within  the  compound  gate  so  that  the  gate 
could  be  opened  without  exposing  the  interior  to  out- 
side eyes  or  weapons.  On  all  the  roofs  of  the  low 
stables  and  storehouses  that  bordered  the  walls  were 
parapets  of  sand-bags. 

These  elaborate  preparations  were  meant  as  much  to 
impress  and  intimidate  the  natives  of  the  region  as  for 
actual  defense.  In  the  main,  and  in  so  far  as  they 
could  be  understood,  the  natives  seemed  friendly.  Sev- 

273 


274  HILLS  OF  HAN 

eral  thousand  of  the  young  men  among  them  had  been 
at  various  times  on  M.  Pourmont's  pay-roll.  The  trade 
in  food  supplies,  brick  and  other  necessary  articles  was 
locally  profitable.  And  the  shen  magistrate  was  keenly 
aware  of  the  commercial  and  military  strength  repre- 
sented by  the  foreigners. 

There  were — engineers,  instrument  men,  stake-boys, 
supply  agents,  clerks,  timekeepers,  foremen  and  others 
— fourteen  Frenchmen,  eight  Australians,  three  Bel- 
gians, six  Englishmen,  two  Scotch  engineers,  four 
Americans,  two  Russians.  Three  of  the  Chinese  had 
served  as  non-commissioned  officers  in  the  British  Wei 
Hai  Wei  regiment  in  1900.  There  were  a  few  native 
foremen  who  had  been  trained  in  the  modern  Chinese 
army  of  Yuan  Shi  K'ai.  The  total  force,  including 
M.  Pourmont  himself  and  his  immediate  office  force, 
came  to  forty-six  white  and  about  eighty  able-bodied 
Chinese.  These  latter  were  now  being  put  through 
hours  of  military  drill  every  day  in  conspicuou*  places 
about  the  hillside. 

A  number  of  men  acted  as  intelligence  runners, 
and  the  activity  of  these,  supplemented  by  occasional 
word  front  the  yamen  of  the  shen  magistrate,  kept 
M.  Pourmont  informed  of  the  march  of  events  in  the 
province.  Thus  it  could  not  have  been  twelve  hours 
after  Brachey  bore  the  news  of  Griggsby  Doane's 
death  to  the  mission  at  T'ainan-fu  before  M.  Pour- 
mont as  vrell  knew  of  it,  the  word  coming  by  wire  to 
the  local  yamen  and  thence  passing  in  whispers  to  the 
compound  on  the  hill. 


APPARITION  275 

i 

Then,  late  one  afternoon,  Doane's  pretty  little 
daughter  came  in,  escorted  by  the  American  journal- 
ist, Jonathan  Brachey,  and  a  young  secretary  from  the 
yamen  of  the  provincial  judge  disguised  as  a  muleteer. 
Brachey  at  once  volunteered  to  help  and  was  put  in 
charge  of  preparing  two  small  lookout  posts  on  the 
upper  hill.  He  was  uncommunicative  and  dryly  self- 
sufficient  in  manner,  but  proved  a  real  addition  to  the 
establishment,  contributing  the  great  Anglo-Saxon 
quality  of  confidence  and  tone.  Though  M.  Pour- 
mont  would  have  preferred  a  more  sociable  man.  His 
was  a  lonely  life.  He  loved  talk — even  in  broken  Eng- 
lish— for  its  own  sake.  He  had,  himself,  vivacity  and 
humor.  And  it  was  a  disappointment  that  this  Brachey 
didn't  know  Chambertin  from  vin  ordinaire,  and  cared 
little  for  either. 

Little  Miss  Doane  touched  his  heart,  she  was  so 
pretty,  so  quick  in  her  bright  graceful  way,  yet  so 
white  and  sad.  But  always  brave,  as  if  sustained  by 
inner  faith.  She  asked  at  once  to  be  put  to  work,  and 
quickly  adapted  herself  to  the  atmosphere  of  Mme. 
Pourmont's  workroom  in  the  residence,  where  Ma- 
dame's  two  daughters  and  the  English  trained  nurse 
were  busy  directing  the  Chinese  sewing  women.  .  .  . 
It  transpired  that  the  Mrs.  Boatwright  who  was  in 
charge  at  the  mission  had  refused  to  save  herself  and 
those  in  her  charge,  so  the  Mademoiselle  had  come  on 
independently.  This,  thought  M.  Pourmont,  showed 
a  courage  and  enterprise  suggestive  of  her  father. 


276  HILLS  OF  HAN 

2 

That  night  M.  Pourmont  telegraphed  Elmer  Boat- 
wright  confirming  the  news  of  Doane's  death,  and 
urging  an  immediate  attempt  to  get  through  to  Ping 
Yang. 

On  the  preceding  day  he  had  sent  a  party  of  twelve 
men,  white  and  Chinese,  in  command  of  an  Australian 
engineer,  to  Shau  T'ing,  on  the  Eastern  Border,  to  get 
the  supplies  that  had  been  shipped  down  from  Peking. 
These  men  returned  on  the  following  day;  and  among 
the  cases  and  bales  of  supplies  borne  on  the  long  train 
of  carts  they  guarded  were  the  bodies  of  two  dead 
Chinese  and  a  Russian  youth  with  a  bullet  in  his  throat. 

News  came  then  that  a  large  force  of  Lookers  had 
started  in  an  easterly  direction  from  Hung  Chan.  And 
Boatwright  wired  that  the  mission  party  was  at  last 
under  way,  seven  whites  and  fifty  natives. 

M.  Pourmont  at  once  sent  a  party  of  forty  mounted 
men  westward  along  the  highway,  commanded  by  an 
Englishman  named  Swain.  This  small  force  fought  a 
pitched  battle  with  the  Looker  band  that  had  been 
evaded  by  Brachey,  suffering  several  casualties.  A 
native  was  sent  on  ahead,  riding  all  night,  with  a 
note  to  Boatwright  advising  great  haste.  But  it  was 
difficult  for  the  mission  party  to  travel  with  any  speed, 
as  it  had  been  found  impossible  to  secure  horses  or 
carts  for  many  of  the  Chinese  converts,  and  not  one 
of  the  missionaries  would  consent  to  leave  these 
charges  behind.  It  became  necessary  therefore  for 


APPARITION  277 

Swain  to  move  a  half-day's  march  farther  west  than 
had  been  intended.  He  joined  the  missionaries  shortly 
after  the  advance  guard  of  the  Western  Lookers  had 
begun  an  attack  on  the  inn  compound.  Already  six  or 
seven  of  the  secondary  Christians  had  been  dragged 
out  and  shot  or  burned  to  death  when  Swain  led  his 
white  and  yellow  troopers  in  among  them,  shooting 
right  and  left.  There  must  have  been  several  hundred 
of  the  Lookers ;  but  they  amounted  to  little  more  than 
a  disorganized  mob,  and  as  soon  as  they  found  their 
comrades  falling  around  them,  screaming  in  agony 
and  fright,  they  threw  away  their  rifles  and  fled. 

Swain  at  once  ordered  out  the  entire  mission  com- 
pany, mounted  as  many  as  possible  of  the  frightened 
fugitives  on  the  horses  of  his  troop,  and  with  such 
extra  carts  as  he  could  commandeer  in  the  village  for 
his  wounded,  himself  and  his  uninjured  men  on  foot, 
he  pushed  rapidly  back  toward  Ping  Yang.  The  few 
Chinese  who  lagged  were  left  in  native  houses.  The 
horses  that  fell  were  dragged  off  the  road  and  shot. 

This  man  Swain,  though  he  concerns  us  in  this  nar- 
rative only  incidentally,  was  one  of  a  not  unfamiliar 
type  on  the  China  coast.  He  was  hardly  thirty  years 
of  age,  a  blond  Briton,  handsome,  athletic,  evidently  a 
man  of  some  education  and  breeding.  He  had  once 
spoken  of  serving  as  a  subaltern  in  the  Boer  War.  A 
slightly  elusive  reputation  as  a  Shanghai  gambler  had 
floated  after  him  to  Ping  Yang.  He  was  at  times  a 
hard  drinker,  as  his  lined  face  indicated,  faint,  purplish 
markings  already  forming  a  fine  network  under  the 


278  HILLS  OT  HAN 

skin  of  his  nose.  His  blue  eyes  were  always  slightly 
bloodshot.  He  never  spoke  of  his  own  people.  And  it 
had  been  noted  that  after  a  few  drinks  he  was  fond 
of  quoting  Kipling's  The  Lost  Legion.  Yet  on  this 
little  expedition,  unknown  to  the  archives  of  any  war 
department,  Swain  proved  himself  a  hero.  He  brought 
all  but  twelve  of  the  fifty-seven  mission  folk  and  eight 
of  his  own  wounded  safely  to  Ping  Yang,  leaving 
three  of  his  Chinese  buried  back  there.  And  himself 
sustained  a  bullet  wound  through  the  flesh  of  his  left 
forearm  and  a  severe  knife  cut  on  the  left  hand.  .  .  . 
The  drift  of  opinion  among  respectable  people  along 
Bubbling  Well  Road  in  Shanghai,  as  here  in  Ping 
Yang,  was  that  Swain  would  hardly  do.  Certain  of 
these  mission  folk,  in  particular  Miss  Hemphill,  whose 
philosophy  of  life  could  hardly  be  termed  comprehen- 
sive, were  later  to  find  their  mental  attitude  toward 
their  rescuer  somewhat  perplexing. 


Though  she  evidently  tried  to  be  quiet  about  it,  Mrs. 
Boatwright's  first  act  was  troublesome.  She  had  been 
taken  in,  of  course,  with  the  other  white  women,  by 
the  Pourmonts;  in  the  big  house.  Here  the  principal 
three  of  them — Dr.  Cassin  on  her  one  hand  and  Miss 
Hemphill  on  the  other — were  put  down  at  the  dinner 
table  on  that  first  evening  directly  opposite  Betty.  Miss 
Hemphill  flushed  a  little,  bit  her  lip,  then  inclined  her 
head  with  what  was  clearly  enough  meant  to  be  distant 


APPARITION  279 

courtesy.  Dr.  Cassin,  already  too  deeply  occupied  with 
her  wounded  to  waste  thought  on  merely  personal  mat- 
ters, bowed  coolly.  But  Mrs.  Boatwright  stared  firmly 
past  the  girl  at  the  screen  of  carved  wood  that  stood 
behind  her. 

Betty  bent  her  head  over  her  plate.  She  had  of 
course  dreaded  this  first  encounter;  all  of  her  courage 
had  been  called  on  to  bring  her  into  the  dining-room; 
but  her  own  sense  of  personal  loss  and  injury  had 
lately  been  so  overshadowed  by  the  growing  tragedy 
in  which  they  were  dwelling  that  she  had  forgotten 
with  what  complete  cruelty  and  consistency  this  wom- 
an's stern  sense  of  character  could  function.  She  had 
lost,  too,  in  the  mounting  sober  beauty  of  her  love  for 
Brachey,  any  lingering  sense  of  wrong-doing.  Here  at 
Ping  Yang  Brachey  commanded,  she  knew  triumph- 
antly, the  respect  of  the  little  community. 

They  were  thinking,  he  and  she,  only  at  moments 
of  themselves.  Indeed,  days  passed  without  a  stolen 
half -hour  together.  She  gloried  in  her  knowledge  that 
he  would  neglect  no  smallest  duty  to  indulge  his  emo- 
tions in  companionship  with  her;  nor  would  she  neg- 
lect duty  for  him And  the  people  here  were 

all  so  kind  to  her,  so  friendly!  The  presence  of  this 
grim  personality  was  an  intrusion. 

After  dinner  Mrs.  Boatwright  went  directly  to  M. 
Pourmont  in  his  study  and  told  him  that  it  would 
be  necessary  for  her  to  sleep  and  eat  in  another  build- 
ing. She  would  give  no  reasons,  nor  would  she  in  any 
pleasant  way  soften  her  demand.  Accordingly,  the 


280  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Pourmonts,  always  courteous,  always  cheerful,  made 
at  once  a  new  arrangement  in  the  crowded  compound. 
Some  of  the  Australian  young  men  were  turned  out 
into  a  tent ;  and  the  Boatwrights,  accompanied  by  their 
assistants,  were  settled  by  midnight  in  the  smaller 
building  immediately  adjoining  the  residence.  Mr. 
Boatwright  protested  a  little  to  his  wife,  but  was  si- 
lenced. All  he  could  do  was  to  make  some  extreme 
effort  to  treat  the  Pourmonts  with  courtesy. 

And  so  Betty,  when  in  the  morning  she  again  mus- 
tered her  courage  to  enter  the  dining-room,  found 
them  gone.  And  instantly  she  knew  why.  .  .  .  She 
couldn't  eat.  All  day  forlorn,  her  mind  a  cavern  of 
shadows,  she  put  herself  in  the  way  of  meeting 
Brachey,  but  did  not  find  him  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon. He  was  coming  in  then  from  the  outworks  up 
the  hill.  She  stood  waiting  just  within  the  gate. 

They  had  been  thinking  constantly,  since  the  one 
misunderstanding,  of  the  cablegram  that  would  an- 
nounce his  freedom.  In  his  eagerness  he  had  expected 
to  find  it  waiting  at  Ping  Yang.  Day  after  day  native 
runners  got  through  to  the  telegraph  station  and 
brought  messages  for  others.  .  .  .  To  Betty  now  it 
seemed  the  one  thing  that  could  arm  her  against  the 
stern  judgment  in  Mrs.  Boatwright's  eyes. 

Brachey's  knickerbockers  and  stockings  were  red 
with  mud.  He  wore  a  canvas  shooting  coat  of  M. 
Pourmont.  He  was  lean,  strong,  quick  of  tread. 

They  drew  aside,  into  a  corner  of  the  wall  of  sand- 
bags. She  saw  the  momentary  light  in  his  tired  eyes 


APPARITION  281 

when  they  rested  on  her;  gravely  beautiful  eyes  she 
thought  them.  Her  fingers  caught  his  sleeve ;  her  eyes 
timidly  searched  his  face,  and  read  an  answer  there  to 
the  question  in  her  heart. 

"You  haven't  heard?" 

He  slowly  shook  his  head.   "No,  dear,  not  yet." 

Her  gaze  wavered  away  from  him. 

"It's  got  to  come,"  he  added.  "It  isn't  as  if  there 
weren't  a  positive  understanding." 

"I  know,"  she  murmured,  but  without  conviction. 
"Of  course.  It's  got  to  come." 

They  were  silent  a  moment. 

"I — I'll  go  back  to  the  house,"  she  breathed,  then. 

"Keep  strong,  dear,"  said  he  very  gently. 

"I  know.  I  will.  It's  helped,  just  seeing  you." 

Then  she  was  gone. 

As  he  looked  after  her,  his  heart  full  of  a  gloomy 
beauty,  he  longed  to  call  her  back  and  in  some  way 
restore  her  confidence.  But  the  appearance  of  the  mis- 
sion folk  had  shaken  him,  as  well,  this  day.  The  mere 
presence  of  Mrs.  Boatwright  in  the  compound  was 
suddenly  again  a  living  force.  Up  there  on  the  hillside, 
driving  his  native  workmen  through  the  long  hot 
hours,  he  had  faced  unnerving  thoughts.  For  Mrs. 
Boatwright  had  brought  him  out  of  the  glamour  of  his 
love;  she,  that  sense  of  her,  if  merely  by  stirring  his 
mind  to  resentment  and  resistance,  restored  for  the 
time  his  keen  logical  faculty.  He  saw  again  clearly  the 
mission  compound  at  T'ainan-fu.  And  he  saw 
Griggsby  Doane — huge,  strong,  the  face  that  might 


282  HILLS  OF  HAN 

»'      •* 
so  easily  be  tender,  working  with  passion  in  the  softly 

flickering  light  from  a  Chinese  lamp. 
,  He  had  given  Griggsby  Doane  a  pledge  as  solemn  as 
one  man  can  give  another.  He  had,  because  Doane  was 
so  suddenly  dead,  broken  that  pledge.  But  now  he 
knew,  coldly,  clearly,  that  of  material  proof  that 
Doane  was  dead  neither  he  nor  M.  Pourmont  nor  these 
difficult  folk  from  T'ainan  held  a  shred. 


Early  on  the  following  morning — at  about  three 
o'clock — a  small  shell  exploded  in  the  compound. 
Within  five  minutes  two  others  fell  outside  the  walls. 

At  once  the  open  spaces  within  the  walls  were  filled 
with  Chinese,  none  fully  dressed,  talking,  shouting, 
wailing.  Among  them,  a  moment  later,  moved  white 
men,  cartridge  pouches  and  revolvers  hastily  slung  on, 
rifles  in  hand,  quietly  ordering  them  back  to  their  quar- 
ters and  themselves  taking  positions  along  the  walls. 
The  crews  of  the  two  machine  guns  promptly  joined 
the  sentries  in  the  redoubts.  M.  Pourmont  went  about 
calmly,  pleasantly,  supervising  the  final  preparations. 
Two  small  parties,  one  led  by  Swain,  the  other  by 
Brachey,  went  up  the  hillside  to  the  men  in  the  rifle 
pits  there.  A  few  trusted  natives  slipped  out  on  scout- 
ing expeditions. 

As  the  first  faint  color  appeared  in  the  eastern  sky, 
and  the  darkness  slowly  gave  way  through  the  morn- 
ing twilight  to  the  young  day,  the  walls  were  lined 


APPARITION  283 

with  anxious  faces.  Strained  eyes  peered  up  and  down 
the  hillside  for  the  first  glimpse  of  the  enemy.  Sur- 
mises and  conjectures  flew  from  lip  to  lip — the  attack- 
ers were  thousands  strong;  American,  French  and 
English  troops  were  already  on  the  way  down  from 
Peking;  no  troops  could  be  spared;  such  a  relieving 
party  had  already  been  intercepted  and  driven  back  as 
McCalla  had  been  driven  back  in  1900;  the  Shau  T'ing 
bridge  was  down,  the  telegraph  lines  were  broken,  old 
Kang  had  beheaded  Pao  and  seized  the  entire  provin- 
cial government,  was,  indeed,  in  personal  command 
here  at  Ping  Yang.  So  the  rumors  ran. 

Daylight  spread  slowly  over  the  hillside.  Far  up 
among  the  native  houses  and  down  near  the  village 
groups  of  strange  figures  could  be  seen  moving  about. 
They  wore  a  uniform  much  like  that  the  Boxers  had 
worn,  except  that  coat  and  trousers  were  alike  red 
and  only  the  turban  yellow.  At  intervals  shells  fell 
here  and  there  about  the  walls. 

Back  in  his  study  in  the  residence  M.  Pourmont, 
by  breakfast  time,  had  reports  from  several  of  his 
scouts  and  was  able  to  sift  the  rumors  down  to  a 
basis  of  fact.  Several  thousand  Lookers  were  already 
in  the  neighborhood  and  others  were  on  the  way.  The 
Shau  T'ing  bridge  was  gone,  and  it  was  true  that  the 
local  shen  magistrate  had  been  cut  off  from  telegraphic 
communication  with  the  outside  world.  And  Kang 
was  at  the  moment  establishing  headquarters  five  li  to 
the  westward. 

The  entrenched  parties  up  the  hillside  lay  unseen 


284  HILLS  OF  HAN 

and  unheard  in  their  trenches,  awaiting  the  signal  to 
fire.  The  compound  was  still  now.  Breakfast  was  car- 
ried about  to  the  men  on  duty. 

Toward  nine  o'clock  considerable  activity  was  noted 
up  the  hill,  beyond  the  outposts.  Several  squads  of  the 
red  and  yellow  figures  appeared  in  the  open  apparently 
digging  out  a  level  emplacement  on  the  steep  hillside. 
Then  a  small  field  gun  was  dragged  into  view  from 
behind  a  native  compound  wall  and  set  in  position. 
The  distance  was  hardly  more  than  two  hundred  yards ; 
they  meant  to  fire  point-blank. 

M.  Pourmont  went  out  to  the  upper  redoubt  and 
studied  the  scene  through  field-glasses.  The  men 
begged  permission  to  fire,  but  the  bearded  French  en- 
gineer ordered  them  to  wait. 

The  little  red  and  yellow  men  were  a  long  time  at 
their  preparations.  They  moved  about  as  if  confident 
that  no  white  man's  eyes  could  discern  them.  Finally 
they  gathered  back  of  the  gun.  There  was  some  fur- 
ther delay.  Then  the  gun  was  fired,  and  a  shell  whirred 
over  the  compound  and  on  across  the  valley,  exploding 
against  the  opposite  hillside,  near  a  temple,  in  a  cloud 
of  smoke  and  red  dust. 

There  was  still  another  wait.  Then  a  shell  carried 
away  part  of  a  chimney  of  the  residence.  The  sound 
of  distant  cheers  floated  down-hill  on  the  soft  breeze. 
The  little  men  clustered  about  the  gun. 

M.  Pourmont  lowered  his  glasses  and  nodded.  The 
machine  gun  opened  fire,  spraying  its  stream  of  bullets 
directly  on  the  crowded  figures. 


APPARITION  285 

To  the  men  standing  and  kneeling  in  the  redoubt  the 
scene,  despite  the  rattle  of  the  gun  and  the  wisps  of 
smoke  curling  about  them  and  the  choking  smell,  was 
one.  of  impersonal  calm.  The  Australian  working  the 
gun  was  quietly  methodical  about  it.  The  crowded 
figures  up  the  hill  seemed  to  sit  or  lie  down  deliberately 
enough.  Others  appeared  to  be  moving  away  slowly 
toward  the  houses,  though  when  M.  Pourmont  gave 
them  a  look  through  his  glasses  it  became  evident  that 
their  legs  were  moving  rapidly.  Soon  all  who  could 
get  away  were  gone,  leaving  several  heaped-up  mounds 
of  red  near  the  gun  and  smaller  dots  of  red  scattered 
along  the  path  of  the  retreat.  With  a  few  scattering 
shots  the  Australian  sat  back  on  his  heels  and  glanced 
up  at  M.  Pourmont.  "Heats  up  pretty  fast,"  he  re- 
marked casually,  indicating  the  machine  gun. 


A  shout  sounded  up  the  hill.  All  turned.  Swain 
had  mounted  to  the  parapet  of  his  rifle  pit  and  was 
waving  his  rifle.  His  half  dozen  men,  white  and 
Chinese,  followed,  all  shouting  now.  Over  to  the 
right,  from  the  other  pit,  the  lean  figure  of  Jonathan 
Brachey  appeared,  followed  by  others.  Then  they 
started  up  the  hillside.  Like  the  retreating  Lookers 
they  seemed  to  move  very  slowly ;  but  the  glasses  made 
it  clear  that  they  were  running  and  scrambling  fever- 
ishly up  the  slope,  fourteen  of  them,  pausing  only  at 
intervals  to  fire  toward  the  houses,  where  a  few  puffs 
of  white  smoke  appeared. 


286  HILLS  OF  HAN 

They  reached  the  Chinese  gun,  turned  it  around  and, 
five  or  six  of  them,  began  running  it  down-hill.  The 
others  lingered,  clustering  together.  A  shot  from  one 
of  the  red  heaps  was  met  by  a  blow  of  a  clubbed  rifle; 
that  was  seen  by  the  Australian  through  the  glasses. 
There  were  more  shots  from  the  compound  walls  be- 
yond. The  Australian  quietly  returned  the  glasses  to 
his  chief,  sighted  along  his  machine  gun,  and  sprayed 
bullets  along  those  walls,  first  to  the  left  of  the  raiding 
party,  then,  very  carefully,  to  the  right. 

M.  Pourmont  descended  to  the  compound  and  or- 
dered a  party  of  coolies  out  with  wheelbarrows.  These 
began  mounting  the  slope,  obediently,  painfully.  The 
raiders  dropped  behind  the  little  heaps  of  dead  and 
waited.  To  the  many  watching  eyes  along  the  wall  it 
seemed  as  if  those  deliberate  coolies  would  never  end 
their  climb;  inch  by  inch  they  seemed  to  move.  Even 
the  more  rapidly  moving  gun,  descending  the  slope, 
seemed  to  crawl.  When  it  did  at  length  draw  near,  the 
eager  observers  noted  that  the  men  handling  it  were  all 
Chinese;  the  whites  had  stayed  up  there.  Swain  was 
there,  and  Brachey,  and  the  others. 

Betty  witnessed  the  scene  from  an  upper  window  of 
the  residence  with  Mme.  Pourmont  and  her  daughters. 
She  heard  the  rat-tat-tat  of  the  machine  gun ;  through 
a  pair  of  glasses  she  saw  the  red-clad  Lookers  fall,  all 
without  clearly  realizing  that  this  was  battle  and  death. 
It  seemed  a  calm  enough  picture.  But  when  Brachey 
started  up  the  hill  her  heart  stopped. 


APPARITION  287, 

More  and  more  slowly,  as  the  climb  told  on  the 
porters,  the  barrows  moved  up  the  slope;  but  at  last 
they  reached  their  destination.  Then  all  worked  like 
ants  about  them.  Within  ten  minutes  all  were  back 
in  the  compound  creaking  and  squealing,  each  on  its 
high  center  wheel,  under  the  loads  of  shells. 

Betty  watched  Brachey  through  the  glasses.  Naively 
she  assumed  that  he  would  return  to  her  after  passing 
through  such  danger.  And  when  she  saw  him  drop 
casually  into  the  little  pit  on  the  hillside  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  couldn't  wait  out  the  day.  Now  that  she 
had  watched  him  leading  his  men  straight  into  mortal 
danger — had  so  nearly,  in  her  own  heart,  lost  him — 
she  began  to  sense  the  terrible  power  of  love.  All 
that  had  gone  before  in  this  strange  relationship  of 
theirs  seemed  like  the  play  of  children  beside  her 
present  sense  of  him  as  her  other  self.  Indeed  the 
danger  seemed  now  to  be — she  thought  of  it,  in  lucid 
moments,  as  a  danger — that  she  should  cease  to  care 
about  outside  opinion.  Her  heart  throbbed  with  pride 
in  him. 

At  dusk  the  outposts  were  relieved.  When  Brachey 
entered  the  gate,  Betty  was  there,  waiting,  a  tremulous 
smile  hovering  about  her  tender  little  mouth  and  about 
her  misty  eyes. 

He  paused,  in  surprise  and  pleasure.  She  gave  him 
a  hand,  hesitantly,  then  the  other;  then,  impulsively, 
her  arms  went  around  his  neck.  .  .  .  His  men 
straggled  wearily  past,  their  day's  work  done.  Not 


288  HILLS  OF  HAN 

one  looked  back.  She  was  almost  sorry,  for  that  and 
for  the  dusk.  Arm  in  arm  they  entered  the  compound 
and  walked  to  the  steps  of  the  residence. 

That  night,  three  shells  struck  within  the  compound. 
One  wrecked  a  corner  of  Mme.  Pourmont's  kitchen. 
Another  carried  away  a  section  of  galvanized  iron  roof 
and  killed  a  horse.  The  third  destroyed  a  tent,  killing 
a  Chinese  woman  and  wounding  a  man  and  two  girls. 
Thus,  before  morning,  Dr.  Cassin  and  her  helpers 
were  at  the  grim  business  of  patching  and  restoring 
the  piteous  debris  of  war. 

By  daylight  the  red  and  yellow  lines  were  closed 
about  the  compound.  Shells  roared  by  at  intervals 
all  day,  and  bullets  rattled  against  the  walls.  The 
upper  windows  of  the  residence  were  barricaded  now 
with  sand-bags.  Five  more  were  wounded  during  the 
day,  two  of  them  white.  Enemy  trenches  appeared, 
above  and  below  the  compound.  During  the  follow- 
ing night  M.  Pourmont  set  a  considerable  force  of 
men  at  work  running  a  sap  out  to  the  rifle  pits,  and 
digging  in  other  outposts  on  the  lower  slope.  His  night 
runners  moved  with  difficulty,  but  brought  in  reports 
of  feasts  and  orgies  at  Kang's  headquarters  down  the 
valley,  where,  surrounded  by  his  full  retinue,  the  old 
Manchu  was  preparing  to  revel  in  slaughter.  As  the 
days  passed,  the  sense  of  danger  grew  deeper;  the 
faces  one  saw  about  the  compound  wore  a  dogged 
expression.  An  armed  guard  stood  over  the  store- 
houses, men  were  killed  and  wounded,  and  women  and 
children.  They  talked,  heavily  where  the  casual  was 


APPARITION  289 

intended,  of  settling  down  to  a  siege.  They  spoke  of 
other,  larger  sieges;  of  Ma  f  eking  and  Lady  smith  of 
recent  memory.  But  no  one,  now,  mentioned  the  pros- 
pects of  early  relief.  /One  night  Mr.  Po  went  out  with 
a  Chinese  soldier  on  a  scouting  trip;  and  neither  re- 
turned. On  the  following  night,  one  of  the  Wei  Hai 
Wei  men  was  sent.  At  daybreak  they  found  his  head, 
wrapped  in  a  cloth,  just  inside  the  gate.  The  enemy 
had  crept  close  enough,  despite  the  outposts,  to  toss 
it  over  the  wall.  .  .  .  After  this,  for  a  time,  no 
word  went  out  or  came  in. 


Elmer  Boatwright  slept  alone  in  a  small  room;  his 
wife,  Miss  Hemphill  and  Dr.  Cassin  occupied  a  large 
room  in  the  same  building.  One  night,  tossing  on  his 
cot,  the  prey  of  nightmares,  Boatwright  started  up, 
cold  with  sweat,  and  sat  shivering  in  the  dark  room. 
Outside  sounded  the  pop — pop,  pop — of  the  snipers. 
But  there  was  another  sound  that  had  crashed  in 
among  the  familiar  noises  of  his  dreams. 

It  came  again — a  light  tapping  at  his  door.  He 
tried  to  get  his  breath;  then  tried  to  call  out,  "Who 
is  it?"  But  his  voice  came  only  in  a  whisper. 

It  wasn't  his  wife;  she  wouldn't  have  knocked.  He 
had  not  before  been  disturbed  at  night;  it  would  mean 
something  serious,  nothing  good.  It  could  mean  noth- 
ing good. 

Elmer  Boatwright  was  by  no  means  a  simple  cow- 


290  HILLS  OF  HAN 

ard.  He  rose,  shivering  with  this  strange  sense  of 
cold;  struck  a  light;  and  candle  in  hand  advanced  to 
the  door.  Here,  for  a  moment  he  waited. 

Again  the  tapping  sounded. 

He  opened  the  door;  and  beheld,  dimly  outlined 
in  the  shadowy  hall,  clad  in  rags,  face  seamed  and 
haggard,  eyes  staring  out  of  deep  hollows,  the  gigantic 
frame  of  Griggsby  Doane,  leaning  on  his  old  walking 
stick.  He  was  hatless,  and  his  hair  was  matted.  A 
stubble  of  beard  covered  the  lower  half  of  his  face. 
His  left  shoulder,  tinder  the  torn  coat,  was  bandaged 
with  the  caked,  bloodstained  remnant  of  his  shirt. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   DARK 

1 

ELMER  BOATWRIGHT'S  chin  sagged  a  little 
way.  For  a  long  moment  he  stood  motionless, 
making  no  sound;  then,  without  change  of  expression 
on  his  gray  thin  face,  he  moved  with  a  slow  gliding 
motion  backward,  backward,  until  his  knees  struck  the 
bed ;  and  stood,  bent  forward,  his  palsied  hand  tipping 
the  candle  so  far  that  the  hot  tallow  splashed  in  white 
drops  on  the  matting. 

Slowly  the  giant  figure  stirred,  straightened  up, 
came  slowly  into  the  room;  closed  the  door,  leaned 
back  against  it. 

Then  Boatwright  spoke,  slowly,  huskily : 

"It— it  is  you?" 

"Yes."    It  was  plainly  an  effort  for  Doane  to  speak. 

"But — but  I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  got 
through." 

"Men  do  get  through  now  and  then."  Doane  spoke 
with  the  quick  irritability  of  the  man  whose  powers 
of  nervous  resistance  have  been  tried  to  the  uttermost. 

"You're  wounded.  You  must  be  tired."  Boatwright 
was  quite  incoherent.  "You'd  better  lie  down.  Here 
— take  my  bed !  How  did  you  ever  find  me  ?  How  did 
you  get  in  in  the  first  place  ?" 

1  291 


292  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"I'll  sit  for  a  moment."  Doane  lowered  himself 
painfully  to  the  bed.  "Betty  is  here?" 

"Betty?   Oh,  yes!  We're  all  safe." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"I — I  don't  know  exactly." 

"You  don't  know!" 

"Why  .  .  .  Madame  Pourmont  has  been  caring 
for  her." 

"You  mean  that  she  is  ill  ?" 

"No.  Oh,  no!  One  moment.  You've  been  hurt.  I 
must  tell  the  others.  You  must  have  attention  at  once. 
Mary  Cassin  is  right  here — and  my  wife."  The  little 
man  moved  to  the  door.  His  color  was  returning  now ; 
he  was  talking  rapidly,  out  of  a  confused  mind.  "You 
must  have  had  a  terrible  time." 

"They  left  me  for  dead  at  the  Hung  Chan  Gate.  I 
crawled  to  the  house  of  a  convert."  Doane's  great 
eyes,  staring  out  of  shadowy  hollows,  burned  with 
tragic  memories.  Those  eyes  held  Boatwright  fasci- 
nated ;  he  shivered  slightly.  "As  soon  as  I  felt  able  to 
travel  I  started  toward  T'ainan.  Several  of  our  native 
people  came  with  me,  walking  at  night,  hiding  by  day. 
On  the  way  we  learned  that  you  had  left.  So  I  came 
here.  I  must  see  Betty." 

"But  not  like  this,"  the  little  man  blurted  out. 

Doane's  eyes  wandered  down  over  his  muddy  tat- 
tered clothing. 

"I'll  call  the  others  first,"  said  Boatwright.  He  set 
down  his  candle  on  the  wash-stand,  just  inside  the 
door,  and  slipped  out. 


THE  DARK  293 

Doane  sat  erect,  without  moving.  His  eyes  stared  at 
the  candle  and  at  the  grotesque  wavering  shadows  of 
the  wash-bowl  and  pitcher  on  the  wall.  At  each  small 
night  sound  he  started  nervously — the  scratching  of  a 
mouse,  a  voice  in  the  compound,  a  distant  sputter  of 
shots. 

Boatwright  slipped  back  into  the  room. 

"They're  coming,"  he  said  breathlessly.  "In  a  min- 
ute. Mary  sleeps  in  most  of  her  clothes  anyway,  these 
days." 

"What  is  it  about  Betty  ?"  Doane  asked  sharply. 

"Oh — she's  quite  all  right.  We  don't  see  much  of 
her,  not  being  in  the  same  house.  We're  all  pretty  busy 
here,  these  days.  It's  an  ugly  time.  I — I  was  just  won- 
dering. I  don't  know  what  we  can  dress  you  in.  You 
could  hardly  wear  my  things.  One  of  the  Australians 
is  nearly  as  big  as  you.  Perhaps  in  the  morn- 
ing ..." 

His  voice  had  risen  a  little,  nearly  to  the  querulous, 
as  he  hurriedly  drew  on  his  outer  clothing.  From  the 
way  his  eyes  wandered  about  the  room  it  appeared 
that  his  thoughts  had  run  far  afield.  And  he  was 
clumsy  about  the  buttons.  Even  the  intensely  preoccu- 
pied Doane  became  aware  of  this,  and  for  a  moment 
studied  him  with  a  puzzled  look. 

The  little  man's  tongue  ran  on.  "Mary'll  fix  you  up 
for  now.  Sleep'll  be  the  best  thing.  In  the  morning 
you  can  use  my  shaving  things.  And  I'll  look  up  that 
Australian.  .  .  .  There  they  are !" 

He  hurried  to  the  door.  Dr.  Cassin  came  in,  greeted 


294  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Griggsby  Doane  with  a  warm  hand-clasp,  and  at  once 
examined  his  shoulder.  Boatwright  she  sent  over  to 
the  dispensary  for  bandages. 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Boatwright  appeared,  her 
strong  person  wrapped  in  a  quilted  robe. 

"This  is  a  great  relief,"  she  said.  "We  had  given 
you  up." 

Doane's  eyes  fastened  eagerly  on  this  woman. 

"Have  you  sent  word  to  Betty  ?"  he  asked  quickly. 

Mrs.  Boatwright  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  with- 
out replying,  then  moved  deliberately  to  the  window. 

"Please  don't  move,"  cautioned  Dr.  Cassin,  who 
was  working  on  his  shoulder. 

"Have  you  sent  word?"  Doane  shot  the  question 
after  Mrs.  Boatwright. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"What  is  it  ?"  cried  Doane  then. 

"If  you  please!"  said  Dr.  Cassin. 

"Something  is  wrong !    What  is  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Boatwright  was  standing  squarely  before  the 
window  now,  looking  out  into  the  dark  courtyard. 

"What  is  it?    Tell  me!    Is  she  here?" 

"Really,  Mr.  Doane" — thus  the  physician — "I  can 
not  work  if  you  move.  Yes,  she  is  here." 

"But  why  do  you  act  in  this  strange  way?" 

Dr.  Cassin  compressed  her  lips.  All  her  working 
adult  life  had  been  spent  under  the  direction  of  this 
man.  Never  before  had  she  seen  him  in  the  slight- 
est degree  beaten  down.  She  had  never  even  seen  him 


THE  DARK  295 

tired.  In  her  steady,  objective  mind  he  stood  for  un- 
shakable, enduring  strength.  But  now,  twitching  ner- 
vously under  her  firm  hands,  staring  out  of  feverish 
eyes  after  the  uncompromising  woman  by  the  window, 
his  huge  frame  emaciated,  spent  with  loss  of  blood, 
with  suffering  and  utter  physical  and  nervous  exhaus- 
tion, he  had  reached,  she  knew,  at  last,  the  limits  of 
his  great  strength.  He  had,  perhaps,  even  passed  those 
limits;  for  there  was  a  morbid  condition  evident  in 
him,  he  seemed  not  wholly  sane,  as  if  the  trials  he  had 
passed  through  had  been  too  great  for  his  iron  will, 
or  as  if  there  was  something  else,  some  consuming  fire 
in  him,  burning  secretly  but  strongly,  out  of  control. 
All  this  she  saw  and  felt.  His  temperature  was  not 
dangerously  high,  slightly  more  than  two  degrees  above 
normal.  His  pulse  was  rapid,  but  no  weaker  than  was 
to  be  expected.  Worry  might  explain  it;  worry  for 
them  all,  but  particularly  for  Betty.  Though  she  found 
this  diagnosis  not  wholly  satisfactory.  Of  course  it 
might  be,  after  all,  nothing  more  than  exhaustion. 
Sleep  was  the  first  thing.  After  that  it  would  be  a 
simpler  matter  to  study  his  case. 

Then,  starting  up  suddenly,  wrenching  himself  free 
from  her  skilful  hands,  Doane  stood  over  her,  staring 
past  her  at  the  woman  by  the  window. 

"Will  you  please  go  to  Betty,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  trembled  with  feeling,  "and  tell  her  that  I  am  here. 
Wake  her.  She  must  know  at  once.  And  try  to  pre- 
pare her  mind — she  mustn't  see  me  first  like  this." 


296  HILLS  OF  HAN 

There  was  a  breathless  pause.  Then  Mrs.  Boat- 
wright  turned  and  moved  deliberately  toward  the  door. 
Then  she  paused. 

"You'll  see  her  ?"  cried  the  father.  "At  once  ?" 
"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Boatwright.  "No.  I  am  sorry. 
I  would  like  to  spare  you  pain  at  this  time,  Griggsby 
Doane.  But  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can  see  her.  I'll  tell 
you  though,  what  I  will  do.  I'll  tell  Monsieur  Pour- 
tnont."  And  she  went  out. 


She  was  closing  the  door  when  it  abruptly  opened. 
Elmer  Boatwright  stood  there,  looking  after  his  wife 
as  she  went  along  the  dark  hallway.  He  came  in  then. 

"I  brought  the  bandages,"  he  said. 

"You  must  sit  down  again,"  said  the  physician. 

Doane,  evidently  bewildered,  obeyed.  And  she  be- 
gan bandaging  his  shoulder. 

He  even  sat  quietly.  He  seemed  to  be  making  a  de- 
termined effort  to  control  his  thoughts.  When  he 
finally  spoke  he  seemed  almost  his  old  self. 

"Elmer,  something  is  wrong  with  Betty.  Whatever 
it  is,  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

Boatwright  cleared  his  throat. 

Dr.  Cassin  broke  the  silence  that  followed. 

"Mr.  Doane,"  she  said,  "sit  still  here  and  try  to  lis- 
ten to  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  We  have  been  dis- 
turbed about  Betty.  I  won't  attempt  to  conceal  that. 
This  Mr.  Brachey— " 


THE  DARK  297 

"Brachey?    Is  he—" 

"Please!    You  must  keep  quiet!" 

"But  what  is  it  ?    Tell  me— now !" 

"I'm  trying  to.  Mr.  Brachey  came  to  the  compound 
the  morning  after  you  left — ' 

"But  he  gave  me  his  word !" 

"You  really  must  let  me  tell  this  in  my  own  way. 
He  brought  the  news  of  your  death.  He  had  it  from 
Pao's  yamen.  He  demanded  that  we  all  leave  T'ainan 
at  once,  with  him.  If  he  gave  you  his  word,  it  is  prob- 
able that  he  regarded  your  death  as  a  release.  Well 
.  .  .  ."  For  a  moment  she  bent  silently  over  her 
task  of  bandaging. 

"Yes.  Tell  me?"  Doane's  voice  was  quieter  still. 
More  and  more,  to  Boatwright,  who  stood  by  the  wash- 
stand  fingering  a  towel,  he  looked,  felt,  like  the  old 
Griggsby  Doane  .  .  .  except  his  eyes;  they  were 
fixed  intently  on  the  matting;  they  were  wide  open, 
staring  open. 

"Well  .  .  .  Mrs.  Boatwright  felt  that  it  was  not 
yet  the  time  to  go.  She  distrusted  this  man.  So  we 
stayed  a  few  days  longer." 

"You  are  not  telling  me." 

"Yes.  I  am  coming  to  it.  Betty  .  .  .  Betty  felt 
that  she  couldn't  let  him  go  alone." 

In  a  hushed,  almost  a  reflective  voice  Doane  asked : 

"So  she  came  with  him?" 

Dr.  Cassin  bowed.   Elmer  Boatwright  bowed. 

Doane  glanced  up,  briefly,  and  took  them  in;  then 
his  gaze  centered  again  on  the  matting. 


298  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"And  they  are  here  now?" 

"Betty  is  staying  with  Madame  Pourmont.  Mr. 
Brachey  is  living  in  a  tent." 

"Where?    What  tent?" 

Elmer  Boatwright  did  not  wait  to  hear  this  ques- 
tion answered,  or  the  rush  of  other  palliative  phrases 
that  were  pressing  nervously  on  the  tip  of  Dr.  Cas- 
sin's  not  unsympathetic  tongue.  Never  had  he  heard 
the  quiet  menace  in  Griggsby  Doane's  voice  that  was 
in  it  as  he  almost  calmly  uttered  those  three  words, 
"Where?  What  tent?"  He  could  not  himself  think 
clearly;  his  mind  was  a  blur  of  fears  and  nervous  im- 
pulses. Doane  wasn't  normal;  that  was  plain.  Dr. 
Cassin's  bare  announcement  was  a  blow  so  severe  that 
even  as  he  framed  that  tense  question  he  was  strug- 
gling to  control  the  blind  wild  forces  that  were  rav- 
aging that  giant  frame  of  his.  Once  wholly  out  of 
control,  he  might  do  anything.  He  might  kill  Brachey. 
Yes,  easily  that!  It  was  in  his  eyes.  .  .  .  And  so, 
without  a  plan,  all  confused  impulses,  Elmer  Boat- 
wright slipped  out,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  On 
the  outer  sill  of  the  little  building  he  paused,  trying 
desperately  to  think ;  but,  failing  in  this  effort,  hurried 
through  the  night  to  Brachey's  tent. 

He  was,  of  course,  far  from  understanding  him- 
self. It  was  a  moment  in  which  no  small  dogmatic 
mind,  once  touched  by  the  illogic  of  merely  human 
sympathy,  could  hope  to  understand  itself.  Though 
he  and  Brachey  were  barely  speaking,  he  had  watched 
the  man  during  the  capture  of  the  Chinese  gun  and 


THE  DARK  299 

ammunition.  And  since  that  incident  he  had  observed 
that  Brachey  was  steadily  winning  the  respect  of  all  in 
the  compound.  The  confusing  thought  was  that  a 
sinner  could  do  that.  For  he  believed,  with  his  wife, 
and  Miss  Hemphill,  that  Brachey  and  Betty  had 
sinned.  Dr.  Cassin  had  been  more  guarded  in  her 
judgment  but  probably  she  believed  it,  too.  Sin,  of 
course,  to  what  may  without  unpleasant  connotation 
be  termed  the  professionally  religious  mind,  is  a  defi- 
nite, really  a  technical  fact.  In  the  faith  of  the  Boat- 
wrights  it  could  be  atoned  only  by  an  inner  conviction 
followed  by  the  blessing  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  No  mere 
good  conduct,  no  merely  admirable  human  qualities, 
could  save  the  sinner.  And  neither  Betty  nor  Brachey 
had  shown  the  slightest  sign  of  the  regenerative  proc- 
ess. In  Mrs.  Boatwright's  judgment,  therefore,  since 
she  was  a  woman  of  utter  humorless  logic,  of  uncon- 
querable faith  in  conscience,  the  two  stood  condemned. 
But  her  husband,  in  this  time  of  tragic  stress,  was  dis- 
covering certain  merely  human  qualities  that  were 
bound  to  prove  disconcerting  to  his  professed  philoso- 
phy. He  wanted,  now,  to  help  Brachey;  and  yet,  as 
he  ran  through  courtyard  after  courtyard,  he  couldn't 
wholly  subdue  certain  strong  misgivings  as  to  what  his 
wife  might  think  if  she  knew. 


Before  the  tent  he  hesitated.     The  flap  was  tied; 
he  shook  it,  with  a  trembling  hand.     He  heard,  then, 


300  HILLS  OF  HAN 

the  steady  breathing  of  the  man  within.  He  tried 
knocking  on  the  pole,  through  the  canvas,  but  without 
effect  on  the  sleeper.  Then,  with  a  curious  sensation 
of  guilt,  he  reached  in  and  untied  the  flap,  above,  then 
below ;  and  passed  cautiously  in.  The  night  was  warm. 
Brachey  lay  uncovered,  dressed,  as  Boatwright  saw 
when  he  struck  a  match  to  make  certain  of  his  man,  in 
all  but  coat,  collar  and  shoes. 

Boatwright  blew  out  the  match.  For  another  mo- 
ment he  stood  wondering  at  himself;  then  laid  a  hand 
on  the  sleeper's  shoulder. 

Brachey  started  up  instantly;  swung  his  feet  to  the 
floor ;  said  in  a  surprisingly  alert,  cautious  voice : 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's  Elmer  Boatwright." 

"Oh !"  was  Brachey's  reply  to  this.  He  quietly 
lighted  the  candle  that  stood  on  a  small  table  by  the 
head  of  his  cot.  Then  he  added  the  single  word, 
"Well?" 

"I  have  come  on  a  peculiar  errand,  Mr.  Brachey 
.  .  ."  Boatwright  was  fumbling  for  words. 

"Yes?" 

"There  is  little  time  for  talk.  A  queer  situation 
...  let  me  say  this — when  you  came  to  the  mission 
and  asked  us  to  leave  T'ainan  with  you  it  was  under 
the  supposition  that  Griggsby  Doane  was  dead." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  You  mean  that  now  .  .  .  that  the 
news  was  inaccurate?" 

Boatwright  inclined  his  head. 

"He  is  alive,  then?" 


THE  DARK  301 

Another  bow. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Well  ...  it  is  ...  I  must  ask  you  to  con- 
sider the  situation  calmly.  It  is  difficult  .  .  ." 

Boatwright  felt  the  man's  eyes  on  him,  coolly  sur- 
veying him.  It  did  seem  a  bit  absurd  to  be  cautioning 
this  strange  being  to  be  calm.  Had  he  ever  been 
otherwise  ?  Here  he  was,  roused  abruptly  from  slum- 
ber, listening,  and  looking,  like  a  judge.  He  said  now 
with  quick  understanding : 

"He  is  here?" 

Boatwright's  head  inclined. 

"How  did  he  ever  get  through?" 

"We  haven't  heard  the  details  yet.  There's  so 
much  else.  ...  I  want  to  make  it  plain  to  you  that 
he  isn't  altogether  himself.  He  has  evidently  been 
through  a  terrible  experience.  He  was  wounded.  He 
has  some  fever  now,  I  believe.  .  .  .  Let  me  put  it 
this  way.  He  has  just  now  learned  that  you  are  here 
— that  you — " 

"That  I  brought  his  daughter  here?"  The  remark 
was  cool,  clear,  decisive. 

"Well — yes.  Now  please  understand  me.  He  isn't 
himself.  The  news  shocked  him.  I  could  see  that.  My 
suggestion  is — well,  that  you  move  over  to  the  resi- 
dence for  the  rest  of  the  night." 

"Why?" 

"You  see — Mr.  Doane  asked  where  you  might  be 
found,  in  what  tent.  He  has  had  no  time  to  reflect 
over  the  situation.  His  present  mood  is — well,  as  I 


302  HILLS  OF  HAN 

said,  not  normal.  I've  thought  that  to-morrow — after 
he  has  slept — some — we  can  prevail  on  him  to  con- 
sider it  calmly." 

"You  mean  that  he  may  attack  me  ?" 

"Well — yes.  It's  quite  possible.  Monsieur  Pour- 
mont  would  take  you  in  now.  I'm  sure.  In  the  morn- 
ing you'll  be  back  in  your  trenches.  That  will  give 
us  time  to  .  .  ." 

His  voice  died  out.  His  gaze  anxiously  followed 
Brachey's  movements.  The  man  had  buttoned  on  his 
collar,  and  was  knotting  his  tie  before  the  little  square 
mirror  that  hung  on  the  rear  tent-pole.  Next  he 
brushed  his  hair.  Then  he  got  into  his  coat.  And 
then  he  discovered  that  he  was  in  his  stocking  feet. 
That  bit  of  absent-mindedness  was  the  only  sign  he 
gave  of  excitement. 

"If  I  might  suggest  that  you  hurry  a  little,"  thus 
Boatwright  .  .  .  "it's  possible  that  he's  on  his  way 
here  now." 

"Who?"  asked  Brachey  coolly,  raising  his  head. 
"Oh — you  mean  Doane." 

"Yes.    I  really  think—" 

Brachey  waved  him  to  be  still.  He  moved  to  the 
tent  opening,  peered  out  into  the  night,  then  turned 
and  looked  straight  at  his  caller,  slightly  pursing  his 
lips. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Doane  ?"  he  asked. 

"He  was  in  my  room.  But  you're  not — you  don't 
mean — " 

"I'm  going  to  see  him,  of  course." 


THE  DARK  303 

"But  that's  impossible.    He  may  kill  you." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?" 

This  blunt  question  proved  difficult  to  meet.  Boat- 
wright  found  himself  saying,  rather  weakly,  "I'm  sure 
everything  can  be  explained  later." 

"The  time  to  explain  is  now." 

With  this,  and  a  slight  added  sound  that  might  have 
been  an  indication  of  impatience,  Brachey  strode  out. 

4 

For  a  moment  Boatwright  stood  in  the  paralysis  of 
fright ;  then,  catching  his  breath,  he  ran  out  after  this 
strangely  resolute  man;  quickly  caught  up  with  him, 
but  found  himself  ignored.  He  even  talked — inco- 
herently— as  his  short  legs  tried  to  keep  pace  with  the 
swift  long  stride  of  the  other.  He  didn't  himself 
know  what  he  was  saying.  Nor  did  he  stop  when 
Brachey 's  arm  moved  as  if  to  brush  him  off;  though 
he  perhaps  had  been  clinging  to  that  arm. 

Brachey  stopped,  looking  about. 

"This  is  the  house,  isn't  it?"  he  remarked;  then 
turned  in  toward  the  steps. 

The  door  burst  open  then,  and  a  huge  shadowy 
figure  plunged  out.  A  woman's  voice  followed:  "I 
must  ask  you  to  please  come  back,  Mr.  Doane.  Really, 
if  you—" 

At  the  name — "Mr.  Doane" — Brachey  stopped 
short  (one  foot  was  already  on  the  first  of  the  three 
or  four  steps)  and  stiffened,  his  shoulders  drawn  back, 
his  head  high. 


304  HILLS  OF  HAN 

Doane,  too,  stopped,  peering  down. 

"Mr.  Doane,"  said  the  younger  man,  firmly  but  per- 
haps in  a  slightly  louder  tone  than  was  necessary,  "I 
am  Jonathan  Brachey." 

A  hush  fell  on  the  group  of  them — Brachey  waiting 
at  the  bottom  step,  Boatwright  just  behind  him,  Dr. 
Cassin  barely  visible  in  the  shadows  of  the  porch, 
silhouetted  faintly  against  the  light  of  a  candle  some- 
where within,  and  Griggsby  Doane  staring  down  in 
astonishment  at  the  man  who  stood  looking  straight 
up  at  him. 

Brachey  apparently  was  about  to  speak  again.  Per- 
haps he  did  begin.  Boatwright  found  it  impossible 
afterward  to  explain  in  precise  detail  just  what  took 
place.  But  the  one  clear  fact  was  that  Doane,  with  an 
exclamation  that  was  not  a  word,  seemed  to  leap  down 
the  steps,  waving  his  stick  about  his  head.  There  was 
the  sound  of  a  few  heavy  blows ;  and  then  Brachey  lay 
huddled  in  a  heap  on  the  tile  walk,  and  Doane  stood 
over  him,  breathing  very  hard. 

Dr.  Cassin  hurried  down  the  steps  and  knelt  be- 
side the  silent  figure  there.  To  Elmer  Boatwright  she 
said,  briskly:  "My  medicine  case  is  in  your  room. 
Bring  it  at  once,  please  ?  And  bring  water." 

Boatwright  vaguely  recalled,  afterward,  that  he  mut- 
tered, "I  beg  your  pardon,"  as  he  brushed  past  Doane 
and  ran  up  the  steps.  And  he  heard  the  sound  of 
some  one  running  heavily  toward  them. 

When  he  came  out  the  scene  was  curiously  changed. 


THE  DARK  305 

Some  of  the  natives  were  there,  and  one  or  two  whites. 
An  iron  lantern  with  many  perforations  to  let  out  the 
candle-light  stood  on  the  tiles.  One  of  the  Chinese 
held  another.  Dr.  Cassin  was  seated  on  the  ground 
examining  a  wound  on  Brachey's  scalp;  and  the  man 
himself  was  struggling  back  toward  consciousness, 
moving  his  arms  restlessly,  and  muttering. 

But  the  voice  that  dominated  the  little  group  that 
stood  awkwardly  about  was  the  voice  of  M.  Pour- 
mont.  Doane  had  sunk  down  on  the  steps,  his  head 
in  his  hands.  And  over  him,  somewhat  out  of  breath, 
gesturing  emphatically  with  raised  forefinger,  the  en- 
gineer was  speaking  as  follows : 

"Monsieur  Doane,  it  gives  me  ze  great  plaisir  to 
know  zat  you  do  not  die.  To  you  here  I  offair  ze  vel- 
come  viz  all  my  'eart.  But  zis  I  mus'  say.  It  is  here 
la  guerre.  It  is  I  who  am  here  ze  commandair.  An' 
I  now  comman'  you,  Monsieur  Doane,  zer  mus' 
be  here  no  more  of  ze  mattair  personel.  We  here 
fight  togezzer,  as  one,  not  viz  each  ozzer.  You  have 
made  ze  attack  on  a  gentleman  zat  mus'  be  spare'  to  us, 
a  gentleman  ver'  strong,  ver'  brave,  who  fear  nozzing 
at  all.  It  is  not  pairmit'  zat  you  make  'arm  at  Mon- 
sieur Brashayee.  Zis  man  is  one  I  need.  It  is  on  'im 
zat  I  lean." 

Here  Boatwright  found  himself  breaking'in,  all  eag- 
erness, all  nerves  : 

"If  you  had  only  known  how  it  was!  Mr.  Brachey 
insisted  on  coming  straight  to  you." 


306  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Monsieur  Boatr-right,  if  you  please!  I  mus'  have 
here  ze  quiet!  Monsieur  Doane,  you  vill  go  at  once 
to  bed.  It  is  so  I  order  you.  Go  at  once  to  bed !" 

Doane  slowly  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  M.  Pour- 
mont.  "Very  well,"  he  said  quietly.  "You  are  right, 
of  course."  On  these  last  few  words  his  voice  broke, 
but  he  at  once  recovered  control  of  it.  He  rose,  with 
an  effort,  moved  a  few  slow  steps,  hesitated,  then  got 
painfully  down  on  one  knee  beside  the  limp  groaning 
figure  on  the  walk.  He  looked  directly  at  Dr.  Cassin, 
as  he  said: 

"Is  he  badly  hurt?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  replied  the  physician  simply, 
wholly  herself.  "The  skull  doesn't  seem  to  be  frac- 
tured. We  may  find  some  concussion,  of  course." 

Doane's  breath  whistled  convulsively  inward.  He 
knelt  there,  silent,  watching  the  deft  fingers  work. 
Then  he  said — under  his  breath,  but  audibly  enough: 

"What  an  awful  thing  to  do !  What  a  terrible  thing 
to  do !"  And  got  up. 

Boatwright  hurried  to  help  him. 

"I'll  go  with  you,  Elmer,"  said  Doane. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

LIVING  THROUGH 


WHEN  Griggsby  Doane  moved,  pain  shot 
through  his  lame  muscle.  A  vaguely  heavy 
anxiety  clouded  his  brain,  engaged  as  it  still  was  with 
the  specters  of  confusedly  ugly  dreams. 

The  speckled  area  overhead  was  gradually  coming 
clear;  it  appeared  to  be  a  plastered  ceiling,  very  small; 
a  little  cell  of  a  place  .  .  .  oh,  yes,  Elmer  Boat- 
wright's  room! 

Faintly  through  the  open  window  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  came  the  sound  of  a  distant  shot;  another;  a  rattle 
of  them.  And  other,  nearer  shots.  Then  a  slow 
whistling  shriek  and  a  crash.  Then  the  rattle  of  a 
machine  gun,  quite  clear.  Then  a  lull. 

He  sensed  a  presence;  felt  rather  than  heard  low 
breathing;  with  an  effort  that  was  as  much  of  the 
will  as  of  the  body  he  turned  his  head. 

Betty  was  sitting  there,  close  by  the  bed,  gently 
smiling.  Almost  painfully  his  slow  eyes  took  her  in. 
She  bent  over  and  kissed  him,  then  her  little  hand 
nestled  in  his  big  one.  They  talked  a  little;  he  in  a 
natural  enough  manner,  if  very  grave,  spoke  of  his  joy 

307 


308  HILLS  OF  HAN 

in  finding  her  safe.  But  as  he  spoke  his  mind,  not  yet 
wholly  awake,  took  on  a  morbid  activity.  Did  she 
know  what  he  had  done  in  the  night?  Had  they  told 
her  ?  Anxiously,  as  she  answered  him,  he  searched  her 
delicately  pretty  face.  How  young  she  was !  Dwelling 
amid  tragedy,  in  a  degree  sobered  by  it,  the  buoyancy 
of  youth  glowed  in  her  brown  eyes,  in  the  texture  of 
her  skin,  in  the  waving  masses  of  fine  hair,  in  the  soft 
vividness  of  her  voice;  the  touch  of  tragedy  would, 
after  all,  rest  lightly  on  her  slim  shoulders.  To  her 
the  world  was  young;  of  the  bitter  impasse  of  middle 
age  she  knew  no  hint.  Men  loved  her,  of  course.  Men 
had  died  for  less  than  she.  .  .  .  He  pondered, 
'swiftly,  gloomily,  the  problem  her  very  existence  pre- 
sented. And  he  looked  on  her  and  spoke  with  a  finer 
tenderness  than  any  he  had  before  felt  toward  any 
living  creature,  even  toward  the  wife  who  had  left  her 
soul  on  earth  in  the  breast  of  this  girl. 

He  decided  that  they  hadn't  told  her.  After  all, 
they  wouldn't.  They  were,  when  all  was  said,  adult 
folk.  He  couldn't  himself  tell  her.  But  his  predica- 
ment was  pitiful.  He  knew  now,  from  the  honest 
love  in  her  eyes,  that  not  the  least  black  of  his  sins  had 
been  the  doubting  her.  Never  again  could  he  do  that. 
But  this  realization  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  an 
attitude  toward  Jonathan  Brachey  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  him  to  entertain ;  the  mere  thought  of  that  man 
roused  emotions  that  he  could  not  control.  But  emo- 
tions, all  sorts,  must  be  controlled,  of  course;  on  no 
other  understanding  can  life  be  lived.  If  direct  effort 


,  LIVING  THROUGH  309 

of  will  is  insufficient,  then  counter-activity  must  be 
set  up. 

Betty  protested  when  he  told  her  he  meant  to  get  up 
at  once.  But  it  was  afternoon.  He  assured  her  that 
his  wound  was  not  serious;  Dr.  Cassin  had  admitted 
that,  and  he  had  slept  deeply.  His  muscles  were  lame ; 
but  that  was  an  added  reason  for  exercise. 

They  had  brought  in  some  of  the  clothing  of  the 
large  Australian.  As  he  pieced  out  a  costume,  he 
shaped  a  policy.  He  couldn't,  at  once,  fit  into  the  life 
of  the  compound.  He  couldn't  face  Brachey.  Not 
yet.  The  only  hope  of  getting  through  these  days  of 
his  passion  lay  in  keeping  himself  desperately  active. 
He  weighed  a  number  of  plans,  finally  discarding  all 
but  one.  Then  he  rang  for  a  servant ;  and  sent,  while 
he  ate  a  solitary  breakfast,  a  chit  to  M.  Pourmont. 


The  engineer  received  him  at  three.  Neither  spoke 
of  the  incident  that  had  brought  them  together  in  the 
night.  To  Doane,  indeed,  it  was  now,  in  broad  day- 
light and  during  most  of  the  time,  but  a  nightmare, 
unreal  and  impossible.  During  the  moments  when  it 
did  come  real,  he  could  only  set  his  strong  face  and 
wait  out  the  turbulence  and  bewilderment  it  stirred  in 
him. 

M.  Pourmont  found  him  very  nearly  himself;  which 
was  good.  He  seemed,  despite  the  bandaged  shoulder 
and  the  thinner  face,  the  Griggsby  Doane  of  old.  But 


310  HILLS  OF  HAN 

his  proposal — he  was  grimly  bent  on  it — was  nothing 
less  than  to  make  the  effort,  that  night,  to  get  through 
to  the  telegraph  station  at  Shau  T'ing. 

M.  Pourmont  took  the  position  that  the  thing 
couldn't  be  done.  After  losing  two  natives  in  the  at- 
tempt, he  had  decided  to  conserve  his  meager  man- 
power and  fall  back  on  the  certain  fact  that  the  lega- 
tions knew  of  the  siege  and  were  doubtless  moving 
toward  action  of  some  sort.  Besides,  he  added,  Doane 
with  his  courage  and  his  extensive  knowledge  of  the 
local  situation  was  the  man  above  all  others  he  could 
least  well  spare. 

Doane,  however,  pressed  his  point.  "Getting 
through  the  lines  will  be  difficult,  but  not  impossible," 
he  said.  "Remember  I  did  get  through  last  night.  I 
believe  I  can  do  it  again  to-night.  Even  if  I  should 
be  captured  they  may  hesitate  to  kill  me.  I  would 
ask  nothing  better  than  to  be  taken  before  Kang.  He 
would  have  to  listen  to  me,  I  think.  And  if  I  do  suc- 
ceed in  establishing  communication  with  Peking  I  may 
be  able  to  stir  them  to  action.  The  Imperial  Govern- 
ment can  hardly  admit  that  they  are  backing  Kang. 
It  may  even  be  possible  to  force  them,  through  diplo- 
matic pressure  alone,  to  repudiate  him  and  use  their 
own  troops  to  overthrow  him.  But  first  Peking  must 
have  the  facts." 

M.  Pourmont  smiled. 

"If  you  vill  step  wiz  me,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way 
down  a  corridor  to  his  spacious  dining-room.  There 
on  the  table,  stood  a  large  basket  heaped  with  apples 


LIVING  THROUGH  311 

and  pears.  "Vat  you  t'ink,  Monsieur  Doane !  But 
yesterday  comes  un  drapeau  blanc  to  ze  gate  viz  a  let- 
tair  from  zis  ol'  Kang.  He  regret  vair'  much  zat  ve 
suffair  id  ze  derangement,  an'  he  hope  zat  vair'  soon 
ve  are  again  confortable.  In  Heaven,  perhaps  he 
mean!  Chose  etonnante!  An'  he  sen'  des  fruits  viz 
ze  compliments  of  Son  Excellence  Kang  Hsu  to  Mon- 
sieur Pourmont.  Et  je  vous  demande,  qu'est-ce  que 
cela  fait?" 

Doane  considered  this  puzzle ;  finally  shook  his  head 
over  it.  It  was  very  Chinese.  Kang  doubtless  be- 
lieved that  through  it  he  was  deluding  the  stupid  for- 
eigners and  escaping  responsibility  for  his  savage 
course. 

Finally  Doane  won  M.  Pourmont's  approval  for  his 
forlorn  sally.  He  was,  in  a  wild  way,  glad. 

During  the  few  hours  left  to  him  he  must  work 
rapidly,  think  hard.  That,  too,  was  good.  He  de- 
cided to  write  a  will.  If  he  had  little  money  to  leave 
Betty,  at  least  there  were  things  of  his  and  her 
mother's.  Elmer  Boatwright  would  help  him.  And 
he  must  tell  Betty  he  was  going.  It  was  curiously 
hard  to  face  her,  hard  to  meet  the  eye  of  his  own 
daughter.  He  winced  at  the  thought. 

She  had  returned  to  the  residence  before  him.  He 
asked  for  her  now. 

M.  Pourmont,  giving  a  moment  more  to  consid- 
ering this  man,  whom  he  had  long  regarded  with  a 
respect  he  did  not  feel  toward  all  the  missionaries, 
wondered,  as  he  sent  word  to  the  young  lady,  what 


312  HILLS  OF  HAN 

might  underlie  that  strange  quarrel  of  the  early  morn- 
ing. The  only  explanation  that  occurred  to  him  he 
promptly  dismissed,  for  it  involved  the  little  Mademoi- 
selle's name  in  a  manner  which  he  could  not  permit  to 
be  considered.  M.  Pourmont  was  a  shrewd  man; 
and  he  knew  that  the  Mademoiselle  was  ashamed  of 
nothing.  Nothing  was  wrong  there.  Like  his  wife 
he  had  already  learned  to  love  the  busy  earnest  girl. 
And  then,  leaving  M.  Doane  in  the  reception-room 
waiting  for  her,  he  returned  to  his  study  and  dismissed 
the  whole  matter  from  his  mind.  For  the  siege  was 
cruel  business.  One  by  one,  some  one  every  day,  men 
and  women  and  children,  were  dying.  The  living  had 
to  subsist  on  diminishing  rations,  for  he  had  never 
foreseen  housing  and  feeding  so  large  a  number. 
IThere  were  problems — of  discipline  and  morale,  of 
tactics,  of  sanitation,  of  burying  the  dead — that  must 
be  met  and  solved  from  hour  to  hour. 

On  the  whole,  as  he  settled  again  into  his  endless, 
urgent  task,  M.  Pourmont  was  not  sorry  that  M. 
Doane  had  won  his  consent  to  this  last  desperate  effort 
lo  reach  those  inhumanly  deliberate  white  folk  up  at 
Peking;  men  whose  minds  dwelt  with  precedents  and 
policies  while  their  fellows,  down  here  at  Ping  Yang, 
on  a  hillside,  held  off  with  diminishing  strength  the 
destruction  that  seemed,  at  moments,  certain  to  fall. 


Doane,  watching  Betty  as  she  entered  the  room  at- 
tired in  a  long  white  apron  over  her  simple  dress,  knew 


LIVING  THROUGH  313 

that  he  must  again  beg  the  question  that  lay  between 
them.  He  could  no  more  listen  to  the  burden  of  her 
heart  than  to  the  agony  of  his  own.  Sooner  or  later, 
if  he  lived,  he  would  have  to  work  it  out,  decide  about 
his  life.  If  he  lived.  .  .  . 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  quickly  for  him,  holding  her 
hand  more  tightly  than  he  knew,  "I  have  some  news 
which  I  know  you  will  take  bravely." 

He  could  feel  her  steady  eyes  on  him.  He  hurried 
on.  "I  am  going  out  again  to-night.  There  seems  a 
good  chance  that  I  may  get  through  to  Shau  T'ing, 
with  messages.  I'm  going  to  try." 

His  desire  was  to  speak  rapidly  on,  and  then  go. 
But  he  had  to  pause  at  this.  He  heard  her  exclaim 
softly— "Oh,  Dad !"  And  then  after  a  silence— "I'm 
not  going  to  make  it  hard  for  you.  Of  course  I  un- 
derstand. Any  of  us  may  come  to  the  end,  of  course, 
any  moment.  We've  just  got  to  take  it  as  it  comes. 
But — I — it  does  seem  as  if — after  all  you've  been 
through,  Dad — as  if — " 

He  felt  himself  shaking  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said.    "No.    It's  my  job,  dear." 

"Very  well,  Dad.  Then  you  must  do  it.  I  know. 
But  I  do  wish  you  could  have  a  day  or  two  more  to 
rest.  If  you  could" — this  wistfully — "perhaps  they'd 
let  me  off  part  of  the  time  to  take  care  of  you.  You 
know,  I'm  nursing.  I'd  be  stern.  You'd  have  to  sleep 
a  lot,  and  eat  just  what  I  gave  you."  She  patted  his 
arm  as  she  spoke;  then  added  this:  "Of  course  it's 
not  the  time  to  think  of  personal  things.  But  there's 


314  HILLS  OF  HAN 

i 
one  thing  I've  got  to  tell  you  pretty  soon,  Dad.     A 

strange  experience  has  come  to  me.  It's  puzzling.  I 
can't  see  the  way  very  clearly.  But  it's  very  wonder- 
ful. I  believe  it's  right — really  right.  It's  a  man." 

She  rushed  on  with  it.  "I  wanted  you  to  meet  him 
to-night.  He's — out  in  the  trenches  all  day,  up  the 
hill.  We're  expecting  word — a  cablegram — when 
they  get  through  to  us.  And  when  that  comes,  I'd 
have  to  tell  you  all  about  it.  He'll  come  to  you  then. 
But  I — well,  I  had  to  tell  you  this  much.  It's  been  a 
pretty  big  experience,  and  I  don't  like  to  think  of  go- 
ing through  it  like  this  without  your  even  knowing 
about  it  from  me,  and  knowing,  too,  no  matter  what 
they  may  say" — her  voice  wavered — "that  it's — it's — • 
all  right."  Her  hands  reached  suddenly  up  toward 
his  shoulders ;  she  clung  to  him,  like  the  child  she  still, 
in  his  heart,  seemed. 

He  could  trust  himself  only  to  speak  the  little  words 
of  comfort  he  would  have  used  with  a  child.  He  felt 
that  he  was  not  helping  her;  merely  standing  there, 
helpless  in  the  grip  of  a  fate  that  seemed  bent  on  rack- 
ing his  soul  to  the  final  limit  of  his  spiritual  endurance. 

"This  won't  do,"  she  said.  "I  have  no  right  to  give 
wa-y.  They  need  me  in  the  hospital.  I  shall  think  of 
you  every  minute,  Dad.  I'm  very  proud  of  you." 

She  kissed  him,  and  rushed  away.  He  walked  back 
to  Elmer  Boatwright's  room  fighting  off  a  sense  of 
unreality  that  had  grown  so  strong  as  to  be  alarming. 
It  was  all  a  nightmare  now — the  manly  dogged  faces 
in  the  compound,  the  wailing  sounds  from  the  native 


LIVING  THROUGH  315 

quarter,  the  intermittent  shots,  the  smells,  the  very 
sun  that  blazed  down  on  the  tiling.  Nothing  seemed 
really  to  matter.  He  knew  well  enough,  in  a  corner  of 
his  mind,  that  this  mood  was  the  most  dangerous  of 
all.  It  lay  but  a  step  from  apathy ;  and  apathy,  to  such 
a  nature  as  his,  would  mean  the  end. 

So  he  busied  himself  desperately.  The  simple  will 
he  left  for  Boatwright  with  instructions  that  it  was  to 
be  given  to  Betty  in  the  event  of  his  death.  It  seemed 
that  the  little  man  was  one  of  a  machine-gun  crew  and 
could  not  be  reached  until  well  on  in  the  evening;  he 
had  turned  fighter,  like  the  others. 

He  sewed  up  his  tattered  knapsack  and  filled  it  with 
a  sort  of  iron  ration.  He  wrote  letters,  including  a 
long  one  to  Henry  Withery,  addressed  in  care  of 
Dr.  Hidderleigh's  office  at  Shanghai.  He  framed  with 
care  the  messages  that  were  to  go  over  the  wires  to 
Peking.  He  ate  alone,  and  sparingly.  And  early,  as 
soon  as  darkness  settled  over  the  scene  of  petty  but 
bitter  warfare,  he  slipped  out  of  the  compound  and 
disappeared,  carrying  no  weapon  but  his  walking  stick. 


CHAPTER  XX 


LIGHT 


DOANE  walked,  carelessly  erect,  to  a  knoll  some- 
thing less  than  a  hundred  yards  northeast  of  the 
compound  and  off  to  the  left  of  the  rifle  pits.  Here  he 
stood  for  a  brief  time,  listening.  He  purposed  going 
out  through  the  lines  as  he  had  come  in  through  them, 
by  crawling,  hiding,  feeling  his  way  foot  by  foot.  The 
line  was  thinnest  in  front  of  the  rifle  pits,  and  just  to 
the  left  where  the  upper  machine  gun  commanded  a 
defile. 

He  had  allowed  two  hours  for  the  journey  through 
the  lines,  but  it  consumed  nearly  four.  At  one  point 
he  lay  for  an  hour  behind  a  stone  trough  while  a  squad 
of  Lookers  built  a  fire  and  brewed  tea.  A  recurring 
impulse  was  to  walk  calmly  in  among  those  yellow  men 
and  go  down  fighting.  It  seemed  as  good  a  way  as 
any  to  go.  He  found  it  necessary  to  hold  with  a  strong 
effort  of  will  to  the  thought  of  his  fellows  in  the  com- 
pound ;  that  to  save  them,  and  to  save  Betty,  he  must 
carry  through. 

Toward  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  now  well  to  the 
eastward  of  the  besieging  force,  he  swung  into  his 
stride.  It  seemed,  in  the  retrospect,  absurdly  like  the 

316 


LIGHT  317 

play  of  children  to  be  hiding  and  crawling  about  the 
hillsides.  But  he  was  glad  now  that  he  had  somehow, 
painfully,  kept  his  head.  Barring  the  unforeseen,  the 
diplomatic  gentlemen  up  at  Peking  would  find  the  news 
awaiting  them  when  they  came  to  their  desks  in  the 
morning.  After  that  nothing  that  he  might  do  would 
greatly  matter.  He  could  follow  these  powerfully  re- 
curring impulses  if  he  chose;  let  the  end  come.  That 
was  now  his  greatest  desire.  Life  had  become  quite 
meaningless.  Except  for  Betty.  .  .  . 


Shau  T'ing  was  but  another  of  the  innumerable 
rural  villages  that  dot  northern  China.  Though  there 
were  a  railway  station,  and  sidings,  and  a  quaintly 
American  water  tank  set  high  on  posts.  The  inns  were 
but  the  familiar  Oriental  caravansaries;  no  modern 
hotel,  no  "Astor  House,"  had  sprung  up  as  yet  to  care 
for  newly  created  travel. 

As  he  approached  the  stream  that  ran  through  a 
loess  canyon  a  mile  or  more  west  of  the  village  he 
glimpsed,  ahead,  a  group  of  soldiers  seated  about  a  fire. 
Just  behind  them  were  stacks  of  rifles;  this  much  he 
saw  and  surmised  with  the  help  of  the  firelight.  And 
the  first  glow  of  dawn  was  breaking  in  the  east.  He 
left  the  highway  and  swung  around  through  the  fields, 
passing  between  scattered  grave  mounds  from  whose 
tops  the  white  joss  papers  fluttered  in  the  gray  twi- 
light like  timid  little  ghosts. 


318  HILLS  OF  HAN 

He  crossed  the  gorge  by  the  old  suspension  foot- 
bridge, with  the  crumbling  memorial  arches  at  either 
end  bearing,  each,  characteristic  inscriptions  suggestive 
of  happiness  and  peace.  Looking  down-stream  he 
could  dimly  see  that  the  railway  bridge  lay,  a  tangle 
of  twisted  steel,  in  the  stream,  leaving  the  abutments 
of  white  stone  rearing  high  in  the  air  with  wisps  of 
steel  swinging  aimlessly  from  the  tops. 

He  half  circled  the  village,  and  waited  outside  the 
eastern  gate  until  the  massive  doors  swung  open  at 
sunrise. 

He  went  to  the  leading  inn,  and  gave  up  an  hour  to 
eating  the  food  in  his  knapsack  and  cleaning  his  mud- 
dyed  clothing.  The  innkeeper  informed  him,  when  he 
brought  the  boiled  water,  that  another  white  man  had 
been  there  for  three  days.  After  this  Doane  went 
down  to  the  station.  A  solitary  engine  was  purring 
and  clanking  among  the  sidings,  apparently  making 
up  a  train. 

A  number  of  the  blue-turbaned  military  police 
stood  sentry-go  here  and  there  about  the  yard,  each 
with  fixed  bayonet.  Within  the  room  that  was  at  once 
ticket  office  and  telegraph  station  sat  the  Chinese  agent 
cheerfully  contemplating  a  slack  day. 

Doane  wrote  out  his  messages,  and  stood  over  the 
man  until  they  were  sent;  then  walked  slowly  back 
toward  the  inn.  His  task,  really,  was  done.  He 
would  wait  until  night,  of  course;  there  might  be  re- 
plies. But  at  most  his  only  further  service  would  lie 
in  carrying  hopeful  messages  to  the  beleaguered  folk 


LIGHT  319 

at  Ping  Yang.  Beyond  that  he  would  be  but  one  more 
human  unit  to  fight  and  to  be  fed.  Debit  and  credit, 
they  seemed  just  about  to  balance,  those  two  items. 
Fastening  his  door  he  stretched  out  on  the  kang. 

He  was  awakened  at  the  close  of  day  by  the  inn- 
keeper bringing  food.  The  man  set  out  two  plates  on 
the  dusty  old  table.  Doane  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
kang  and  drowsily  wondered  why.  He  had  slept 
heavily.  He  stood  up ;  moved  about  the  room ;  he  was 
only  a  little  stiff.  Indeed  his  strength  was  surely  re- 
turning. He  felt  almost  his  old  self,  physically. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  In  Chinese  he 
called,  "Enter!" 

The  door  slowly  opened,  and  a  drab  little  man  came 
in,  walking  with  a  slight  limp,  and  stood  looking  at 
him  out  of  dusty  blue  eyes.  He  carried  a  packet  of 
papers. 

"Grigg!"  he  exclaimed  softly. 

"Henry  Withery !"  cried  Doane,  "What  on  earth  are 
you  doing  here  ?" 

Withery  smiled,  and  laid  hat  and  packet  on  the  table.- 

"I've  arranged  to  dine  with  you,"  he  explained. 
"You  won't  mind?" 

"Of  course  not,  Henry.    But  why  are  you  here?" 

"My  plans  were  changed." 

"Evidently.    Do  sit  down." 

"I  came  back  to  find  you.  I've  been  waiting  here, 
for  a  chance  to  get  through.  We've  worried  greatly, 
of  course.  A  rumor  came  from  the  Chinese  that  you 
were  killed." 


320  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"I  nearly  was,"  said  Doane  quietly.  A  cloud  had 
crossed  his  face  as  he  listened.  At  every  point,  appar- 
ently, at  each  fresh  contact  with  life,  he  was  to  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  his  predicament.  It  would 
be  pitiless  business,  of  course,  all  the  way  through,  for 
the  severest  judge  of  all  he  had  yet  to  face  dwelt 
within  his  own  breast;  long  after  the  world  had  for- 
gotten, that  judge  would  be  pronouncing  sentence  upon 
him. 

"You  got  through  to  Shanghai  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Withery,  touched  by  his  appearance,  a  little  dis- 
turbed by  his  nervously  abrupt  manner,  inclined  his 
head. 

"Well,  it's  out,  I  suppose.  What  are  they  saying 
about  me,  Henry?  Really,  you'd  better  tell  me.  I've 
got  to  live  through  this  thing,  you  know.  I  may  as 
well  have  the  truth  at  once." 

Withery  lowered  his  eyes;  fingered  the  chopsticks 
that  lay  by  his  plate. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.  "No,  Grigg,  it's  not  out." 

"But  you  know  of  it.  Surely  others  do,  then.  And 
they'll  talk.  It's  the  worst  way.  It'll  run  wild.  I'd 
rather  face  a  church  trial  than  that."  He  was  himself 
unaware  that  he  had  been  constantly  brooding  upon 
this  aspect  of  his  trouble,  yet  the  words  came  snap- 
ping out  as  if  he  had  thought  of  nothing  else. 

"Now,  Grigg,"  said  Withery,  in  the  same  delib- 
erately thoughtful  way,  "I  want  you  to  let  me  talk. 
I've  come  way  back  here  just  to  do  that.  Hidderleigh 
showed  me  your  letter.  Then  in  my  presence,  he  de* 


LIGHT  321 

stroyed  it.  I  have  promised  him  I  would  speak  of  it 
to  no  one  but  you.  .  .  .  Neither  you  nor  I  could 
have  foreseen  just  how  Hidderleigh  would  take  this. 
He  is,  of  course,  as  he  has  always  been,  a  dogmatic 
thinker.  But  like  others  of  us,  he  has  grown  some  with 
the  years.  He's  less  narrow,  Grigg.  He  knows  you 
pretty  well — your  ability,  your  influence.  He  respects 
you." 

"Respects  me  ?"  Doane  nearly  laughed. 

"Yes.  He  sees  as  clearly  as  you  or  I  could  that  any 
human  creature  may  slip.  And  he  knows  that  no  sin- 
gle slip  is  fatal.  Grigg,  he  wants  you  to  go  back  and 
take  up  your  work." 

Doane  could  not  at  once  comprehend  this  astonish- 
ing statement.  He  was  deeply  moved.  Withery  by 
his  simple  friendliness  had  already  done  much  to  re- 
store in  his  mind,  for  the  moment,  a  normal  feeling 
for  life. 

"But  he  feels,  Grigg,  that  you  ought  to  marry 
again." 

Doane  shook  his  head  abruptly.  i 

"No,"  he  cried,  "I  can't  consider  that.    Not  now." 

"As  he  said  to  me,  Grigg,  'It  is  not  good  for  man  to 
be  alone!'" 

Withery  let  the  subject  rest  here,  and  asked  about 
the  fighting.  The  whole  outside  world  was  watching 
these  Hansi  hills,  it  appeared.  The  Imperial  Govern- 
ment was  already  disclaiming  responsibility.  Troops 
were  on  their  way,  from  Hong  Kong,  from  the  Philip- 
pines, from  Indo-China. 


322  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"It  will  be  a  montn  or  so  before  they  can  get  out 
here,"  mused  Doane. 

"Oh,  yes!    At  best." 

"Meantime,  the  compound  will  fall  at  the  first  really 
determined  attack.  They've  been  afraid  of  Pour- 
mont's  machine  guns — I  heard  some  of  their  talk  last 
night,  and  the  night  before — but  let  Kang  come  to  a 
decision  to  drive  them  in  and  they'll  go.  That  will 
settle  it  in  a  day." 

"Will  they  have  the  courage?" 

"I  think  so.  You  and  I  know  these  people,  Henry. 
They're  brave  enough.  All  they  lack  is  leadership, 
and  organization.  And  this  crowd  have  a  strong 
fanaticism  to  hold  them  up.  Once  let  Kang  appeal  to 
their  spirit  and  they'll  have  to  go  in  to  save  face.  For 
if  they  can't  be  seen  the  only  danger  is  of  an  accident 
here  and  there.  And,  for  that  matter,  Kang  may 
simply  be  waiting  for  Pourmont  to  use  up  his  ammuni- 
tion. It  can't  last  a  great  while,  not  in  a  real  siege, 
which  this  is." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Withery  a  little  later,  "here  is  a 
lot  of  mail  for  Pourmont's  people.  It's  been  accumu- 
lating. There  was  no  way  to  get  it  to  them." 

"I'll  take  it  in,"  said  Doane. 

"You?  You  don't  mean  that  you're  going  to  run 
that  gauntlet  again,  Grigg?" 

"Yes."  He  untied  the  packet,  and  looked  through 
the  little  heap  of  envelopes.  One  was  a  cablegram 
addressed  to  Jonathan  Brachey.  He  held  it  in  tense 
fingers ;  gazed  at  it  long  while  the  pulse  mounted  in  his 


LIGHT  323 

temples.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  almost  casually  then,  "I'm 
going  back  in.  They'll  be  looking  for  me."  But  his 
thoughts  were  running  wild  again. 

Withery  said,  before  he  left,  "I'm  going  to  ask  you 
not  to  answer  Hidderleigh's  request  until  you've 
thought  it  over  carefully.  My  own  feeling  is  that  he 
is  right." 

"Suppose,"  said  Doane,  "my  final  decision  should 
be — as  I  think  it  will — that  I  can't  go  back.  What 
will  they  do?" 

"Then  I've  promised  him,  I'll  go  in  and  take  up 
your  work.  As  soon  as  this  trouble  is  over." 

"That  knocks  out  your  year  at  home,  Henry." 

"Yes,  but  what  matters  it?  Very  likely  I  shall  find 
more  happiness  in  working,  after  all.  That  isn't  what 
disturbs  me.  .  .  .  Grigg,  if  you  leave  the  church 
it  will  be,  I  think,  the  severest  blow  of  my  life.  I — 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  this — for  years  I've  leaned  on 
you.  You  didn't  know,  but  I've  made  a  better  job  of 
my  life  for  knowing  that  you  too  were  hard  at  it,  just 
beyond  the  mountains.  We  haven't  seen  much  of  each 
other,  of  late  years,  but  I've  felt  you  there." 

Doane's  stern  face  softened  as  he  looked  at  his  old 
friend. 

"And  I've  felt  you,  Henry,"  he  replied  gently. 

"Your  blunders  are  those  of  strength,  not  of  weak- 
ness, Grigg.  Perhaps  your  greatest  mistake  has  been 
in  leaning  a  little  too  strongly  on  yourself.  What  I 
want  you  to  consider  now  is  giving  self  up,  in  every 
way." 


324  HILLS  OF  HAN 

But  Doane  shook  his  great  head. 

"No,  Henry — no!  I've  given  to  the  uttermost  for 
years.  And  it  has  wrecked  my  life — " 

"No,  Grigg !    Don't  say  that !" 

"Well — put  it  as  you  will.  The  trouble  has  been 
that  I  was  doing  wrong  all  the  time — for  years — as  I 
told  you  back  in  T'ainan,  I  was  doing  the  wrong  thing. 
It  led,  all  of  it,  to  sin.  For  that  sin,  of  course,  I've 
suffered,  and  must  suffer  more.  The  best  reason  I 
could  think  of  for  going  back  would  be  to  keep  this 
added  burden  off  your  shoulders.  But  that  would  be 
wrong  too.  It's  getting  a  little  clearer  to  me.  I  know 
now  that  I've  got  to  face  my  doubts  and  my  sins,  take 
them  honestly  for  whatever  they  may  be.  Each  life 
must  function  in  its  own  way.  In  the  eagerness  of 
youth  I  chose  wrong.  I  must  now  take  the  conse- 
quences. Good-by,  now!  There's  barely  time  to  slip 
through  the  lines  before  dawn." 

Withery  rose.    "I'll  go  with  you,"  he  said. 

"No.  I  won't  allow  that.  You  haven't  the  strength. 
You're  not  an  outdoor  man.  We  should  have  to 
separate  anyway;  together  we  should  almost  certainly 
be  caught.  No.  You  stay  here  and  get  word  through 
to  them  from  day  to  day  if  you  can  find  any  one  to 
undertake  it.  It  will  mean  everything  to  them  to  hear 
from  the  outside  world.  Good  luck !" 

He  took  the  packet  and  went  out. 


LIGHT;  325 

3 

Again  it  was  dawn.  Griggsby  Doane  stood  on  the 
crest  of  a  terraced  hill  looking  off  into  the  purple  west. 
But  a  few  miles  farther  on  lay  Ping  Yang. 

Beneath  him,  near  the  foot  of  the  slope,  four  coolies 
were  already  at  the  radiating  windlasses  of  a  well, 
and  tiny  streams  of  yellow  water  were  trickling  along 
troughs  in  the  loess  toward  this  and  that  field,  where 
bent  silent  farmers  waited  clod  in  hand  to  guide  the 
precious  fluid  from  furrow  to  furrow.  Still  farther 
down,  along  the  sunken  highway,  a  few  venturesome 
muleteers  led  their  trains.  No  outposts  in  the  Looker 
uniform  were  to  be  seen.  And  he  heard  no  shots.  It 
would  be  a  lull,  then,  in  the  fighting. 

He  descended  the  hill,  dropped  into  the  road,  and 
walked,  head  high,  toward  Ping  Yang.  As  he  swung 
along  he  heard,  far  off,  the  shots  his  ears  had  strained 
for  on  the  hill ;  one,  another,  then  a  spattering  volley ; 
but  he  walked  straight  on.  [The  Mongols  and  Chih- 
leans  on  the  road  gave  him  no  more  than  the  usual 
glance  of  curiosity.  He  passed  through  a  village; 
Ping  Yang  would  be  the  next.  [The  railway  grade — 
here  an  earthen  rampart,  there  a  cutting,  yonder  a 
temporary  wooden  trestle — paralleled  the  highway, 
cutting  into  the  heart  of  old  China  like  a  surgeon's 
knife,  letting  out  superstition  and  festering  poverty, 
letting  in  the  strong  fluids  of  commerce  and  education. 
He  felt  the  health  of  it  profoundly,  striding  on  alone 
through  the  cool,  clear  morning  air.  It  was  imperfect, 


326  HILLS  OF  HAN 

of  course,  this  Western  civilization  that  he  had  so 
nearly  come  to  doubt ;  yet,  materialistic  in  its  nature  or 
not,  it  was  the  best  that  the  world  had  to  offer  at  the 
moment.  It  was  what  the  amazing  instinct  in  man  to 
push  on,  to  better  his  body  and  his  brain,  had  brought 
the  world  to.  It  seemed,  now,  a  larger  expression  of 
the  vitality  he  felt  within  himself,  the  force  that  he  had 
so  lavishly  expended  in  a  direction  that  was  wrong 
for  him. 

He  felt  this,  which  could  not  have  been  less  than  the 
beginning  of  a  new  focus  of  his  misdirected,  scattered 
powers,  and  yet  he  walked  straight  on  toward  the  red 
army  that  was  sworn  to  kill  all  the  whites.  And  though 
his  brain  still  told  him,  coolly,  without  the  slightest 
sense  of  personal  concern,  that  he  would  probably  be 
slain  within  the  hour,  his  heart,  or  his  rising  spirit, 
as  calmly  dismissed  the  report. 

It  might  come,  of  course.  He  literally  didn't  care. 
Death  might  come  at  any  moment  to  any  man.  The 
present  moment  was  his;  and  the  next,  and  the  next, 
until  the  last  whenever  it  should  come.  He  walked  with 
a  thrilling  sense  of  power,  above  the  world.  For  the 
world,  life  itself,  was  suddenly  coming  back  to  him.  He 
had  been  ill — for  years,  he  knew  now — of  a  sick  faith. 
Now  he  was  well.  If  the  old  dogmatic  religion  was 
gone,  he  was  sensing  a  new  personal  religion  of  work, 
of  healthy  functioning,  of  unquestioning  service  in  the 
busy  instinctive  life  of  the  world.  He  would  turn, 
not  away  from  life  to  a  mystical  Heaven,  but  straight 
into  life  at  its  busiest,  head  up,  as  now  on  the  old  high- 


LIGHT  327 

way  of  Hansi,  trusting  his  instinct  as  a  human  creature. 
No  matter  how  difficult  the  start  he  would  plunge  in 
and  live  his  life  out  honestly.  Betty  remained  the  prob- 
lem; he  knit  his  brows  at  the  thought;  but  the  new 
flame  in  his  heart  blazed  steadily  higher.  Whatever  the 
problems,  he  couldn't  he  headed  now. 

"What  a  morbid,  sick  fool  I've  been!"  It  was  the 
cry  of  a  heart  new  born  to  health.  It  occurred  to  him, 
then,  as  he  heard  his  own  voice,  that  this  new  sense  of 
light  had  come  to  him  as  suddenly  as  that  other  light 
that  smote  Paul  on  the  Damascus  road.  It  had  the 
force,  as  he  considered  it  now,  of  a  miracle.  .  .  . 


The  road  was  blocked  ahead.  Drawing  near,  he 
saw  beyond  the  mules  and  horses  and  men  of  the  high- 
way and  the  curious,  pressing  country  folk  a  consider- 
able number  of  yellow  turbans  crowding  the  road  can- 
yon. There  must  have  been  a  hundred  or  more,  with 
many  rifle  muzzles  slanting  crazily  above  them.  After 
a  moment  the  rabble  broke  toward  him. 

Doane  did  not  wait  for  them  to  discover  him,  but 
raising  his  stick  and  calling  for  room  to  pass  he  walked 
in  among  them.  He  stood  head  and  shoulders  above 
them,  a  suddenly  appearing  white  giant  whom  a  few 
resisted  at  first,  but  more  gave  way  to  as  he  pushed 
firmly  through.  Emerging  on  the  farther  side  he 
walked  on  his  way  without  so  much  as  looking  back. 
And  not  a  shot  had  been  fired. 


328  HILLS  OF  HAN 

The  road  wound  its  way  between  steep  walls  of 
loess,  so  that  it  was  impossible  at  any  point  to  see  far 
ahead.  He  came  upon  other,  smaller  groups  of  the 
Lookers.  Only  one  man,  the  largest  of  them,  threat- 
ened him,  but  as  the  man  raised  the  butt  of  his  rifle 
Doane  snatched  the  weapon  from  him  and  knocked  him 
down  with  it;  then  tossed  it  aside  and  strode  on  as 
before. 

He  came  at  length  to  a  scenic  arch  in  a  notch. 
Through  the  arch  Ping  Yang  could  be  seen  in  its  val- 
ley. 

He  stopped  and  looked.  Near  at  hand  were  the 
tents  of  some  of  the  Looker  soldiery;  beyond  lay  the 
village ;  and  beyond  that  on  the  hillside,  the  compound 
of  the  company,  lying  as  still  as  if  it  were  deserted. 
IThere  were  no  puffs  of  smoke,  no  sounds  along  the  vil- 
lage street;  between  the  outlying  houses  small  figures 
appeared  to  be  bustling  about,  but  they  made  no  noise 
that  could  be  heard  up  here.  The  scene  was  uncanny. 

Doane,  however,  went  on  down  the  hill.  None  of 
the  Lookers  were  in  evidence  now  on  the  winding 
street,  but  only  the  silent,  curious  villagers;  this  until 
two  soldiers  in  blue  came  abruptly  out  of  a  house;  and 
then  two  others  firmly  holding  by  the  arms  a  man  in 
red  and  yellow  with  an  embroidered  square  on  the 
breast  of  his  tunic  that  marked  him  as  an  officer  of 
rank.  Other  soldiers  followed,  one  bearing  a  large 
curved  sword. 

Doane  stopped  to  watch. 


LIGHT  329 

4 

Without  ceremony  the  officer's  wrists  were  tied  be- 
hind his  back.  He  was  kicked  to  his  knees.  A  blue 
soldier  seized  his  queue  and  with  it  jerked  his  head 
forward.  The  swordsman,  promptly,  with  one  clean 
blow,  severed  the  neck;  then  wiped  his  sword  on  the 
dead  man's  clothing  and  marched  away  with  the  others, 
carrying  the  head. 

Doane  shivered  slightly,  compressed  his  lips,  and, 
paler,  walked  on.  He  passed  other  blue  soldiers  in  the 
heart  of  the  village,  and  a  row  of  Lookers  standing 
without  arms.  Emerging  from  the  straggling  groups 
of  houses  beyond  the  village  wall  he  took  the  road  up 
the  hill.  Away  up  the  slope  he  could  see  the  men  of 
the  outposts  standing  and  sitting  on  the  parapets  of 
the  rifle  pits.  At  the  gate  of  the  compound  he  called 
out. 

The  gate  opened,  and  closed  behind  him.  Within 
stood  men  of  the  garrison,  and  women,  and  behind 
them  the  Chinese.  All  looked  puzzled.  Many  tongues 
greeted  him  at  once,  eagerly  questioning. 

He  looked  about  from  one  to  another  of  the  thin 
weary  faces  with  burning  eyes  that  hung  on  his  slight- 
est gesture,  and  slowly  shook  his  head.  He  could  an- 
swer none  of  their  questions.  He  was  searching  for 
one  face  that  meant  more  to  him  than  all  the  others. 
It  was  not  there.  He  walked  on  toward  the  house  oc- 
cupied by  the  Boatwrights.  Just  as  he  was  turning  in 
there  he  saw  Betty.  She  was  running  across  from  the 
residence. 


330  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Oh,  Dad!"  she  cried.  "You're  back!"  Her  arms 
were  around  his  neck.  "How  wonderful !  And  you're 
well — like  your  old  self." 

"Better  than  my  old  self,  dear,"  he  said,  with  a  ten- 
der smile,  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"I  can't  stay,  Dad.  I  just  ran  out.  Wasn't  it 
strange — I  saw  you  from  the  window!  But  what's 
happened?  What  is  it?  Everybody's  so  puzzled. 
Have  the  troops  come?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"But  it's  something.    Everybody's  terribly  excited." 

"I  don't  understand  it  myself,  dear.  Though  I 
walked  through  it,  apparently." 

"Oh,  look !  They're  opening  the  gate  !  What  is 
it?"  She  hopped  with  impatience,  like  a  child,  and 
clapped  her  hands.  "Oh,  I  mustn't  stay !  But  tell  me, 
do  you  think  this  dreadful  business  is  over?" 

"I  believe  it  is,  Betty." 

She  ran  back  to  her  post.  And  he  returned  to  the 
gate. 

An  odd  little  cavalcade  was  moving  deliberately  up 
the  hill.  In  front  marched  a  soldier  in  blue  bearing 
a  large  white  flag  (an  obviously  Western  touch,  this). 
Behind  him  came  a  squad  in  column  of  fours,  on  foot 
and  unarmed ;  then  a  green  sedan  chair  with  four  pole- 
men;  behind  this  three  pavilions  with  carved  wooden 
tops,  of  the  sort  carried  in  wedding  processions,  each 
with  four  bearers;  and  last  another  squad  of  foot  sol- 
diers. 

Just  outside  the  gate  they  came  to  a  halt.    The  sol- 


"Better  than  my  old  self,  dear" 


LIGHT  331 

diers  formed  in  line  on  either  side  of  the  road.  An 
officer  advanced  and  asked  permission  to  enter.  This 
was  granted.  At  once  the  chairmen  set  down  their 
burden.  The  carved  door  opened,  and  a  young  Chi- 
nese gentleman  stepped  out.  He  was  tall,  slim,  with 
large  spectacles;  and  moved  with  a  quiet  dignity  that 
amounted  to  a  distinction  of  bearing.  His  long  robe 
was  of  shimmering  blue  silk  embroidered  in  rose  and 
gold;  and  the  embroidered  emblem  on  his  breast  ex- 
hibited the  silver  pheasant  of  a  mandarin  of  the  fifth 
class.  On  his  head,  the  official,  bowl-shaped  straw  hat 
with  red  tassel  was  surmounted  with  a  ball  or  button 
of  crystal  an  inch  in  diameter  set  in  a  mount  of  ex- 
quisitely worked  gold.  His  girdle  clasp  also  was  of 
worked  gold  with  a  plain  silver  button.  The  shoes 
that  appeared  beneath  the  hem  of  his  robe  were  richly 
embroidered  and  had  thick  white  soles. 

Calmly,  deliberately,  he  entered  the  compound.  One 
of  the  engineers,  an  American,  addressed  him  in  the 
Mandarin  tongue.  He  replied,  in  a  deep  musical  voice, 
with  a  pronounced  intonation  that  gave  this  mellow 
language,  to  a  casual  ear,  something  the  sound  of 
French. 

The  engineer  bowed,  and  together  they  moved  to- 
ward the  residence,  where  a  somewhat  mystified  M. 
Pourmont  awaited  them.  But  first  the  mandarin 
turned  and  signaled  to  the  pavilion  bearers,  who  still 
waited  outside  the  gate.  These  came  in  now,  and  it 
became  evident  that  the  ornate  structures  were  laden 
with  gifts.  There  were  platters  of  fruits  and  of  sweet- 


332  HILLS  OF  HAN 

meats,  bottles  of  wine,  cooked  dishes,  and  small  cas- 
kets, some  carved,  others  lacquered,  that  might  have 
contained  jewels. 

Doane,  quietly  observing  the  scene,  found  some- 
thing familiar  in  the  appearance  of  the  envoy.  Some- 
thing vaguely  associated  with  the  judge's  yamen  at 
T'ainan-fu.  Certainly,  on  some  occasion,  he  had  seen 
the  man.  He  stood  for  a  brief  time  watching  the  two 
figures,  a  white  man  in  stained  brown  clothing,  un- 
kempt of  appearance  but  vigorous  in  person,  walking 
beside  the  elegant  young  mandarin,  appearing  oddly 
crude  beside  him,  curiously  lacking  in  the  grace  that 
marked  every  slightest  movement  of  the  silk-clad  Ori- 
ental; and  the  picture  dwelt  for  a  time  among  his 
thoughts — the  oldest  civilization  in  the  world,  and  the 
youngest.  Crude  vigor,  honest  health,  contrasted  with 
a  decadence  that  clung  meticulously  to  every  slightest 
subtlety  of  etiquette.  And  behind  the  two,  towering 
above  the  heads  of  the  ragged  bearers,  the  curving 
pointed  roofs  of  the  three  pavilions,  still  gaily  bizarre 
in  form  and  color  despite  the  weatherbeaten  condition 
of  the  paint;  a  childish  touch,  suggestive  of  circus  day 
in  an  American  village.  Suggestive,  too,  whimsically, 
of  the  second  childhood  of  the  oldest  race. 

Doane,  reflecting  thus,  slowly  followed  them  to  the 
residence. 

5 

Jonathan  Brachey  sat  moodily  on  the  parapet.  Down 
below,  the  compound  (a  crowded  mass  of  roofs  within 


LIGHT  333 

a  rectangle  of  red-gray  wall)  and  below  that  the  strag- 
gling village,  stood  out  as  blocked-in  masses  of  light 
and  shadow  under  the  slanting  rays  of  the  morning 
sun. 

A  French  youth,  beside  him,  polishing  his  rifle  with 
a  greasy  rag1,  looked  up  with  a  question. 

Brachey  shook  his  head;  he  had  no  information. 
He  looked  over  toward  the  other  pit.  The  Austra- 
lian in  commanH  there  (three  nights  earlier  they  had 
buried  Swain)  waved  a  carelessly  jocular  hand  and 
went  on  nibbling  a  biscuit. 

The  thing  might  be  over;  it  might  not.  Brachey 
found  himself  almost  perversely  disturbed,  however, 
at  the  prospect  of  peace.  He  had  supposed  that  he 
hated  this  dirty,  bloody  business.  He  saw  no  glory 
in  fighting,  merely  primitive  blood-lust;  an  outcrop- 
ping of  the  beast  in  man ;  evidence  that  in  his  age-long 
struggle  upward  from  the  animal  stage  of  existence 
man  had  yet  a  long,  long  way  to  climb.  But  from  the 
thought  of  losing  this  intense  preoccupation,  of  living 
quietly  with  the  emphasis  again  placed  on  personal 
problems,  he  found  himself  shrinking.  What  a  rid- 
dle it  was! 

He  spoke  shortly  to  the  French  youth,  took  up  his 
own  rifle,  and  led  the  way  up  the  hill  to  the  bullet- 
spattered  farm  compounds.  They  were  quite  deserted. 
Only  the  huddled,  noxious  dead  remained.  He  went 
on  up  the  hillside,  searching  all  the  hiding-places  of 
those  red  and  yellow  vandals  who  had  filled  his 
thoughts  by  day  and  haunted  his  sleep  at  night;  but  all 


334  HILLS  OF  HAN 

were  empty  of  human  life.  A  great  amount  of  rub- 
bish was  left — cooking  utensils,  knives,  old  Chinese- 
made  rifles  and  swords,  bits  of  uniforms;  he  found 
even  a  jade  ring  and  a  few  strings  of  brass  cash. 

Weary  of  spirit  he  returned  to  the  rifle  pits  only 
to  find  these,  too,  deserted.  From  the  upper  redoubt 
a  man  was  waving,  beckoning.  Apparently  the  com- 
pound gate  was  open,  and  a  group  of  soldiers  standing 
in  line  outside ;  but  these  soldiers  wore  blue.  Through 
his  glasses  he  surveyed  the  moving  dots  near  the  vil- 
lage ;  none  wore  red  and  yellow. 

The  man  was  still  waving  from  the  redoubt.  The 
French  youth,  he  found  now,  was  looking  up  at  him, 
that  eager  question  still  in  his  eyes.  He  nodded.  With 
a  sudden  wild  shout  the  boy  ran  down  the  hill,  waving 
his  rifle  over  his  head. 

So  it  was  peace — sudden,  enigmatic.  Brachey  sat 
again  on  the  parapet.  Griggsby  Doane  was  doubtless 
there  (Brachey  knew  nothing  of  his  journey;  he  had 
not  seen  Betty).  What  could  he  say  to  him,  to  the 
father  whom  Betty  loved  ? 

This  wouldn't  do,  of  course.  He  rose,  a  set  dogged 
expression  on  his  long,  always  serious  face,  and  went 
slowly  down  the  hill;  and  with  only  a  nod  to  this  per- 
son and  that  got  to  his  tent.  Once  within,  he  closed 
the  flaps  and  sat  on  the  cot.  He  discovered  then  that 
he  had  brought  with  him  one  of  the  strings  of  cash, 
and  jingled  it  absently  against  his  knee. 

Voices  sounded  outside.  Men  were  standing  before 
the  tent. 


LIGHT  335 

Then  the  flaps  parted,  and  he  beheld  the  spectacled, 
pleasantly  smiling  face  of  Mr.  Po. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  more  shortly  than  he  knew.  "Come 
in!" 

Mr.  Po  stepped  inside,  letting  the  flaps  fall  to- 
gether behind  him.  He  made  a  splendid  figure  in  blue 
and  gold,  as  he  removed  the  round  hat  with  its  red 
plume  and  crystal  ball  and  laid  it  on  the  rude  table. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you're  still  sound  of  life  and  limb 
and  fresh  as  a  daisy,"  he  remarked  cheerfully.  "With 
permission  I  will  sit  here  a  bit  for  informal  how-do 
chin-chin,  and  forget  from  minute  to  minute  all  cere- 
monial dam-foolishness." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   SOULS   OF   MEN 


"\\  7ELL,"  continued  Mr.  Po  expansively,  "I've 

V  V  certainly  had  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  about  my 
ears." 

Brachey  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe,  and  yielded  his 
senses  for  a  moment  to  the  soothing  effect  of  the  fra- 
grant smoke. 

"Is  the  fighting  really  over?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"But  why?    What's  happened?" 

Mr.  Po  indulged  in  his  easy,  quiet  laugh. 

"To  begin  at  first  blush,"  he  said,  settling  com- 
fortably back  as  if  launched  on  a  long  narrative,  "while 
out  on  scouting  leap  in  dark  I  stumbled  plump  on 
Lookers,  and  by  thunder,  it  was  necessary  to  trust 
broken  reed  of  lying  on  stomach  in  open  ground!" 

"They  caught  you?" 

"Oh,  yes!  For  hell  of  a  while  I  held  breath,  but 
with  dust  in  nose  it  became  unavoidable  to  sneeze.  I 
would  then  have  lost  head  promptly  but  officer  of 
yamen  entourage  of  Kang  spotted  me  and  said,  'What 
the  devil  you  doing  here!'  With  which  I  explain  of 
course  that  I  escape  by  hook  or  crook  from  white 

336 


THE  SOULS  OF  MEN  337 

devils.  Then  I  appear  before  general  and  demand  au- 
dience discussion  with  old  Kang.  Old  reprobate  re- 
ceived me  and  made  long  speech.  Perfectly  absurd! 
He  said  I  must  go  to  T'ainan-fu  as  his  particular  guest 
and  speak  to  His  Excellency  Pao  Ting  Chuan  his  mes- 
sage, like  this : 

"  Tor  many  years  I  have  known  and  respected  your 
abilities  as  scholar  and  statesman  of  huge  understand- 
ing ability.  We  have  both  seen,  you  and  I,  continuing 
unprincipled  encroachment  of  foreign  devil  on  pre- 
serves of  our  ancient  and  fruitful  land,  while  the  sor- 
row of  our  own  Hansi  Province  under  heel  of  foreign 
mining  syndicate  despot  is  matter  of  common  ill  repute 
to  us  both.  Now  as  loyal  friend  and  unswervingly  de- 
termined on  destroying  all  evil  influence  of  foreign 
devils,  I  invite  you  as  guest  to  share  with  me  pleasure 
of  witnessing  capture  and  utter  destruction  of  foreign 
compound  at  Ping  Yang.  Omens  agree  on  midnight 
of  to-day  week,  following  banquet  of  state  and  the- 
atrical performance  at  my  headquarters,  at  which  fa- 
vorite amateur  actor  Wang  Lo  Hsu  will  recite  histori- 
cal masterpiece,  "The  Song  of  Wun  Hsing."  And  as 
my  cooks  are  all  wretched  creatures, unworthy  of  cater- 
ing to  poorest  classes,  I  beg  of  you  bring  delicately 
expert  cook  of  Canton  that  I  may  again  rejoice  in  de- 
lightful memory  of  sweet  lotus  soup.' ' 

Mr.  Po  paused  to  light  a  cigarette. 

"So  you  went  back  to  T'ainan?"  asked  Brachey. 

"Oh,  no,  I  was  taken  back  against  grain  as  prisoner 
of  large  armed  guard." 


338  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"And  you  delivered  the  message  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Pao  didn't  accept,  of  course.  Though  I  don't  see 
how  he  could  get  out  of  it.  He  had  no  soldiers  to 
speak  of,  did  he?" 

"Oh,  yes,  some.  These  he  sent  by  northern  road  to 
region  of  Shan  Tang,  only  thirty  li  away  from  Ping 
Yang.  And  then  he  accept,  for  His  Excellency  is 
great  statesman.  Nobody  yet  ever  put  it  over  on  His 
Excellency,  not  so  you  could  notice  it.  Without  frown 
or  smile  he  assemble  secretaries,  runners  and  lictors  of 
yamen,  banner-men,  some  concubines  and  eunuchs  and 
come  post-haste." 

"So  he's  here  now?" 

"Oh,  yes.  We  have  large  establishment  at  temple 
over  on  neighboring  hill.  And  everything's  all  right. 
O.  K." 

"You'll  forgive  me  if  I  don't  at  all  understand 
why." 

"Naturally.  I  am  going  to  make  clear  as  cotton 
print.  For  a  day  or  so  everything  was  as  disorderly  as 
the  dickens,  of  course.  You  couldn't  hear  yourself 
think.  And  sleep?  My  God,  there  wasn't  any.  And 
of  course  after  death  of  old  reprobate  Lookers  went 
to  pieces  and  raised  Ned.  It  became  necessary  to  pun- 
ish leaders  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  You  see,  Dame 
Rumor  gets  move  on  in  China,  runs  around  like 
scared  chicken,  faster  than  telegraph,  I  sometimes 
think.  And  when  Lookers  heard  stories,  that  Imperial 
Government  up  at  Peking  wasn't  so  crazy  about  giving 


THE  SOULS  OF  MEN  339 

them  support,  and  might  even  hand  them  double-cross 
lemon,  they  began  to  think  about  patching  holes  in 
fences.  They  just  blew  up.  And  His  Excellency" — 
he  chuckled — "he  grasped  situation  like  chain  light- 
ning. Oh,  but  he's  whale  of  a  fellow,  His  Excellency !" 

Brachey  smoked  reflectively  as  he  studied  this  cu- 
riously bloodless  enthusiast.  Evidently  behind  the  hu- 
morously inadequate  English  speech  of  Mr.  Po  there 
was,  if  it  could  be  got  at,  a  stirring  drama  of  intrigue. 
A  typical  Oriental  drama,  bearing  a  smooth  surface  of 
silken  etiquette  but  essentially  cruel  and  bloody.  The 
difficulty  would  lie,  of  course,  in  getting  at  it,  drawing 
it  out  piecemeal  and  putting  it  together. 

"His  Excellency  will  now  clean  up  whole  shooting 
match,"  Mr.  Po  went  on.  "No  more  Ho  Shan  Com- 
pany!" And  he  waved  his  cigarette  about  to  indicate 
the  compound. 

"Oh,  that  goes,  too?" 

"Oh,  yes!  His  Excellency  has  at  once  telegraphed 
agent-general  at  Tientsin  for  final  show-down  price  on 
surrender  of  all  leases,  agreements,  expenses,  bribes 
and  absolute  good  riddance.  They  say  three  million 
taels  cash.  To-morrow  we  shall  throw  it  at  their 
heads.  And  so  much  for  that !" 

"H'm!"  mused  Brachey.  "Pretty  quick  work. 
Rather  takes  one's  breath  away." 

"Oh,  yes!  But  His  Excellency's  son  of  a  gun." 

"Evidently.  But  I'm  still  in  the  dark  as  to  hovr 
this  rather  extraordinary  change  came  about  Did  I 
understand  you  to  say  that  Kang  Is  dead  ?" 


340  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Oh,  yes !    Night  before  last." 

"How  did  that  happen?" 

"Oh,  well — it's  just  as  well  not  to  give  this  away — 
on  arrival  at  Ping  Yang  His  Excellency  made  at  once 
prepare  bowl  of  sweet  lotus  soup  and  send  it  with 
many  compliments  and  hopes  of  good  omens  to  old 
devil." 

"You  mean — there  was  poison  in  it?" 

"Oh,  yes!  Pretty  darned  hard  to  put  it  over  His 
Excellency.  After  that  it  was  no  trouble  at  all  to  be- 
head commanders  of  Looker  troops." 

"Naturally,"  was  Brachey's  only  comment.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  draw  out,  bit  by  bit,  other  details  of  the 
story. 

Some  one  stopped  before  the  tent,  and  a  strong  voice 
called  : 

"Mr.  Brachey." 

With  a  nervously  abrupt  movement  Brachey  sprang 
up  and  threw  back  the  flaps;  and  beheld,  standing 
there,  stooping  in  order  that  he  might  see  within,  the 
giant  person  of  Griggsby  Doane. 


Brachey  bowed  coldly.  Doane's  strong  gaunt  face 
worked  perceptibly. 

Brachey  said : 

"Won't  you  come  in,  sir?  The  tent  is" — there  was 
a  pause — "the  tent  is  small,  but  .  .  .  You  are  per- 


THE  SOULS  OF  MEN  341 

haps  acquainted  with  Mr.  Po  Sui-an  of  the  yamen  of 
His  Excellency  Pao  Ting  Chuan." 

Mr.  Doane  bowed  toward  the  Chinese  gentleman. 

"I  think  I  have  seen  Mr.  Po  at  the  yamen,"  he  said,, 
speaking  now  in  the  slow  grave  way  of  the  old 
Griggsby  Doane.  "You  bring  good  news?" 

"Oh,  yes !"  Mr.  Po  lighted  a  cigarette.  "We  shall 
doubtless  in  jiffy  see  you  again  at  T'ainan-fu." 

Doane  looked  thoughtfully,  intently  at  him,  then  re- 
plied in  the  simple  phrase,  "It  may  be."  To  Brachey 
he  said  now,  producing  a  white  envelope,  "I  found  this 
cablegram  held  for  you  at  Shau  T'ing,  sir." 

Brachey  took  the  envelope;  stood  stiffly  holding  it 
unopened  before  him.  For  a  moment  the  eyes  of  these 
two  men  met.  Then  Doane  broke  the  tension  by  simply 
raising  his  head,  an  action  which  removed  it  from  the 
view  of  the  men  within  the  tent. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said  rather  gruffly.  And  "Good 
morning,  Mr.  Po." 

He  was  well  out  of  ear-shot  when  Brachey's  gray 
lips  mechanically  uttered  the  two  words,  "Thank  you." 

From  a  distant  corner  of  the  compound  came  the 
fresh  voices  of  young  men — Americans  and  Australian 
and  English — raised  in  crudely  pleasant  harmony. 
They  were  singing  My  Bonnie  Lies  Over  the  Ocean. 
As  they  swung  into  the  rolling,  rollicking  refrain, 
women's  voices  joined  in  faintly  from  here  and  there 
about  the  compound.  .  .  .  Brachey  seemed  to  be 
listening.  Then,  again,  abruptly  starting  into  action, 


342  HILLS  OF  HAN 

he  stepped  outside  the  tent  and  stared  across  the  court- 
yard after  Griggsby  Doane.  .  .  .  Then,  as  abruptly, 
he  remembered  his  guest  and  returned  within  the  tent, 
with  an  almost  muttered  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Oh,  go  on — read  your  cablegram!"  said  Mr.  Po 
good-humoredly. 

Brachey  looked  at  him;  then  at  the  envelope — turn- 
ing it  slowly  over.  His  hands  trembled.  This  fact 
appeared  to  disturb  him.  He  held  one  hand  out  be- 
fore his  face  and  watched  it  intently,  finally  lowering 
it  with  a  quick  nervous  shake  of  the  head.  He  seated 
himself  again  on  the  cot;  tore  off  an  end  of  the  en- 
velope ;  caught  his  breath ;  then  sat  motionless  with  the 
bit  of  paper  that  meant  to  him  everything  in  life,  or 
nothing,  hanging  between  limp  fingers.  A  puzzling 
reminder  of  the  strange  man,  Griggsby  Doane,  was  the 
painful  throbbing  in  his  head.  .  .  .  They  were 
singing  again,  about  the  compound — it  was  the  college 
song  of  his  youth,  Solomon  Levi. 

He  thought,  with  another  of  those  odd  little  men- 
tal and  physical  jerks,  again  of  his  guest;  and  heard 
himself  saying — weakly  it  seemed,  like  a  man  talking 
in  dreams — "You  will  think  me  .  .  ."  But  found 
himself  addressing  an  empty  enclosure  of  canvas.  Mr. 
Po  had  slipped  out  and  dropped  the  flaps.  That  he 
could  have  done  this  unobserved  frightened  Brachey  a 
little.  He  looked  again  at  his  trembling  hand. 

Again  he  raised  the  envelope.  Until  this  moment 
he  had  assumed  that  it  could  bring  but  one  message  to 
himself  and  Betty;  but  now  he  knew  vividly  better. 


THE  SOULS  OF  MEN  343 

Anything  might  have  happened.  It  was  unthinkable 
that  he  should  want  the  courage  to  read  it.  He  had 
foreseen  no  such  difficulty.  Perhaps  if  it  had  come 
by  any  other  hand  than  that  of  Griggsby  Doane.  .  .  . 

His  thoughts  wandered  helplessly  back  over  the  soli- 
tary life  he  had  led  ...  wandering  in  Siam  and 
Borneo  and  Celebes,  dwelling  here  and  there  in  untrav- 
eled  corners  of  India,  picking  up  the  quaint  folklore  of 
the  Malay  Peninsula,  studying  the  American  sort  of  so- 
cial organization  in  the  Philippines  .  .  .  eight  years 
of  it!  He  had  begun  as  a  disheartened  young  man, 
running  bitterly  away  from  the  human  scheme  in  winch 
he  found  no  fitting  niche.  Yes,  that  was  it,  after  all ; 
he  had  run  away !  He  had  begun  with  a  defeat,  based 
his  working  life  on  just  that.  The  five  substantial 
books  that  now  stood  to  his  name  in  every  well-stocked 
library  in  America,  as  in  many  in  England  and  on  the 
Continent,  were,  after  all,  but  stop-gaps  in  an  empty 
life.  They  were  a  subterfuge,  those  books.  ...  All 
the  hard  work,  the  eager  close  thinking,  was  now,  sud- 
denly, meaningless.  That  he  had  chosen  work  instead 
of  drink,  that  he  had  been,  after  all,  a  decent  fellow, 
pursuing  neither  chance  nor  women,  seemed  immate- 
rial. 

The  curse  of  an  active  imagination  was  on  him  now, 
and  was  riding  him  as  wildly  as  ever  witch  rode  a 
broomstick. 

The  very  bit  of  paper  in  his  hand  was  nothing  if  not 
the  symbol  of  his  terrible  failure  in  the  business  called 
living.  As  he  had  built  his  work  on  failure,  was  he, 


344  HILLS  OF  HAN 

inevitably,  to  build  the  happiness  of  himself  and  Betty 
on  the  same  painful  foundation.  Even  if  the  paper 
should  announce  his  freedom?  Bitterly  he  repeated 
aloud  the  word,  "Freedom!"  Then  "Happiness?" 
.  .  .  What  were  these  elusive  things?  Were  they  in 
any  sense  realities  ? 

He  nerved  himself  and  read  the  message: 

"Absolute  decree  granted  you  are  free." 

He  tossed  it,  with  its  unpunctuated  jumble  of  words, 
on  the  table. 

A  little  later,  though  he  still  indulged  in  this  scathing 
self-analysis,  the  habit  of  meeting  responsibilities  that 
was  more  strongly  a  part  of  his  nature  than  in  this  hour 
of  utter  emotion  he  knew,  began  to  assert  itself.  The 
strong  character  that  had  led  him,  after  all,  out  to 
fight  and  to  build  his  mental  house,  was  largely  the 
man. 

He  slowly  got  up  and  stood  before  the  square  bit 
of  mirror  that  hung  on  the  rear  tent-pole;  then  looked 
down  at  his  mud-stained  clothes.  Deliberately,  almost 
painfully,  he  shaved  and  dressed.  It  was  characteristic 
that  he  put  on  a  stiff  linen  collar. 

There  was,  to  a  man  of  his  stripe,  just  one  thing  to 
do;  and  that  thing  he  •  was  going  at  directly,  firmly. 
Until  it  was  done  he  could  not  so  much  as  speak  to 
Betty.  Of  the  outcome  of  this  effort  he  had  no  notion ; 
he  was  going  at  it  doggedly,  with  his  character  rather 
than  with  his  mind.  Indeed  the  mind  quibbled,  manu- 


THE  SOULS  OF  MEN  345 

factured  little  delays,  hinted  at  evasions.  He  even 
listened  to  these  whisperings,  entertained  them;  but 
meanwhile  went  straight  on  with  his  dressing. 


As  he  emerged  from  the  tent  sudden  noises  assailed 
his  ears.  A  line  of  young  men  danced  in  lock  step,  do- 
ing a  serpentine  from  one  areaway  to  another,  and 
waving  and  shouting  merrily  as  they  passed.  There 
was  still  the  singing,  somewhere;  one  of  the  songs  of 
Albert  Chevalier,  who  had  not  then  been  forgotten. 
He  heard  vaguely,  with  half  an  ear,  the  enthusiastic 
outburst  of  sound  on  the  final  line : 

"Missie  'Enry  'Awkins  is  a  first-class  nyme !" 

So  it  was  a  day  of  celebration!  He  had  forgotten 
that  it  would  be.  But  of  course!  Even  the  Chinese 
were  at  it;  he  could  hear  one  of  their  flageolets  wail- 
ing, and,  more  faintly,  stringed  instruments. 

He  walked  directly  to  the  building  occupied  by  the 
Boatwrights ;  sent  in  his  card  to  Mr.  Doane. 

He  was  shown  into  a  little  cubicle  of  a  room.  Here 
was  the  huge  man,  rising  from  an  absurdly  small  work 
table  that  had  been  crowded  in  by  the  window,  between 
the  wall  and  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  was  writing,  ap- 
parently, a  long  letter. 

Brachey,  an  odd  figure  to  Doane's  eyes,  in  his  well- 
made  suit  and  stiff  white  collar,  stood  on  the  sill,  as 
rigid  as  a  soldier  at  attention. 

"I  am  interrupting  you,"  he  said,  almost  curtly. 


346  HILLS  OF  HAN 

For  the  first  time  Griggsby  Doane  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  man  Brachey  behind  that  all  but  forbidding 
front;  and  he  hesitated,  turning  for  a  moment,  stack- 
ing his  papers  together,  and  with  a  glance  at  the  open 
window  laying  a  book  across  them. 

He  had  said,  kindly  enough,  "Oh,  no,  indeed !  Come 
right  in."  But  his  thoughts  were  afield,  or  else  he  was 
busily,  quickly,  rearranging  them. 

Brachey  stepped  within,  and  closed  the  door.  Here 
they  were,  these  two,  at  last,  shut  together  in  a  room. 
It  was  a  moment  of  high  tension. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Doane,  still  busying  himself  at  the 
table,  but  waving  an  immense  hand  toward  the  other 
small  chair. 

But  Brachey  stood  .  .  .  waiting  .  .  .  in  his 
hand  a  folded  paper. 

Finally  Doane  lifted  his  head,  with  a  brusk  but  not 
unpleasant,  "Yes,  sir?" 

Brachey,  for  a  moment,  pressed  his  lips  tightly  to- 
gether. 

"Mr.  Doane,"  he  said  then,  clipping  his  words  off 
short,  "may  I  first  ask  you  to  read  this  cablegram?" 

Doane  took  the  paper,  started  to  unfold  it,  but  then 
dropped  it  on  the  table  and  stepped  forward. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  Brachey  sensed,  behind 
this  great  frame  and  the  weary,  haggard  face,  the 
real  Griggsby  Doane;  and  stood  very  still,  fighting 
for  control  over  the  confusion  in  his  aching  head.  This 
was,  he  saw  now,  a  strong  man ;  a  great  deal  more  of  a 
personality  than  he  had  supposed  he  would  find.  Even 


THE  SOULS  OF  MEN  347 

before  the  next  words,  he  felt  something  of  what  was 
coming,  something  of  the  vigorous  honesty  of  the  man. 
Doane  had  been  through  recent  suffering,  that  was 
clear.  Something — and  even  then,  in  one  of  his  keen 
mental  flashes,  Brachey  suspected  that  it  was  a  much 
more  personal  experience  than  the  Looker  attack — 
something  had  upset  him.  This  wasn't  a  man  to  turn 
baby  over  a  wound,  or  to  lose  his  head  in  a  little  fight- 
ing. No,  it  was  an  illness  of  the  soul  that  had  hol- 
lowed the  eyes  and  deepened  the  grooves  between  them. 
But  it  didn't  matter.  What  did  matter  was  that  he 
was  now,  in  this  gentle  mood,  surprisingly  like  Betty. 
For  she  had  a  curious  vein  of  honesty;  and  she  said, 
at  times,  just  such  unexpectedly  frank,  wholly  open 
things  as  he  felt  (with  an  opening  heart)  that  the 
father  was  about  to  say  now. 

"Mr.  Brachey" — this  was  what  he  said,  with  ex- 
traordinary simplicity  of  manner — "can  you  take  my 
hand?" 

If  Brachey  had  spoken  his  reply  his  voice  would 
have  broken.  Instead  he  gripped  the  proffered  hand. 
And  during  a  brief  moment  they  stood  there. 

"Now,"  said  Doane  quietly,  "sit  down."  And  he 
read  the  cablegram.  After  some  quiet  thought  he  said, 
"Have  you  come  to  ask  for  Betty?" 

The  directness  of  this  question  made  speech,  to 
Brachey,  even  more  nearly  impossible  than  before.  He 
bowed  his  head. 

Doane  had  dropped  into  the  little  chair  by  the  little 
table.  He  sat,  now,  thinking  and  absently  weighing 


348  HILLS  OF  HAN 

the  cablegram  in  one  hand.    Finally,  reaching  a  con- 
clusion, he  rose  again. 

"The  best  way,  I  think,  will  be  to  settle  this  thing 
now."  He  appeared  to  be  speaking  as  much  to  himself 
as  to  his  caller.  "I'll  get  Betty.  You  won't  mind  wait- 
ing? They  don't  have  call  bells  in  this  house."  And 
he  returned  the  cablegram  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  the  door  ajar  behind  him. 

Brachey  stepped  over  to  the  window,  thinking  he 
might  see  Betty  when  she  came,  but  it  gave  on  an  inner 
court.  He  stared  out  at  the  gray  tiling.  The  moment 
was,  to  him,  terrible.  He  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
that  strange  region  of  the  spirit  that  is  called  happi- 
ness. The  door,  always  before  closed  to  him  (except 
the  one  previous  experience  when  it  proved  but  an 
entry  into  bitterness  and  desolation)  had  opened,  here 
at  the  last,  amazingly,  at  his  touch.  And  he  was  afraid 
to  look. 

It  seemed  an  hour  later  when  footsteps  sounded  out- 
side, and  the  outer  door  opened.  Then  they  came  in, 
father  and  daughter. 

Betty,  rather  white,  stood  hesitant,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other.  Doane  placed  a  gently  protecting 
arm  about  her  slim  shoulders. 

"I  haven't  told  her,"  he  said.  "That  is  for  you  to  do. 
I  want  you  both  to  wait  while  I  look  for  the  others." 

He  was  gone.  Betty  came  slowly  forward.  Brachey 
handed  her  the  cablegram. 

"I — I  can't  read  it,"  she  said,  with  a  tremulous  little 
laugh.  "John— I'm  crying!" 


THE  SOULS  OF  MEN  349 


The  door  squeaked.  Miss  Hemphill  looked  in; 
stopped  short;  then  in  a  sudden  confusion  of  mind  in 
which  indignation  struggled  with  bewilderment  for  the 
upper  hand,  stepped  back  into  the  hall.  Before  she 
could  come  down  on  the  decision  to  flee,  Dr.  Cassin 
joined  her;  curiously,  carrying  her  medicine  case. 

To  the  physician's  brisk,  "Mr.  Doane  sent  word  to 
come  here  at  once.  Do  you  know  what  is  the  matter?" 
Miss  Hemphill  could  only  reply,  rather  acidly,  "I  can't 


imagine 


Mrs.  Boatwright  came  into  the  corridor  then,  fol- 
lowed by  Doane.  She  walked  with  firm  dignity,  her 
enigmatic  face  squarely  set.  And  when  he  ushered 
them  into  the  room,  she  entered  without  a  word,  but 
remained  near  the  door. 

For  a  long  moment  the  room  was  still;  a  hush  set- 
tling over  them  that  intensified  the  difficulty  in  the  situ- 
ation. Miss  Hemphill  stared  down  at  the  matting. 
Mrs.  Boatwright's  eyes  were  fixed  firmly  on  the  wall 
over  the  bed.  The  one  audible  sound  was  the  heavy 
breathing  of  Griggsby  Doane,  who  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  door,  brows  knit,  one  hand  reaching  a  little  way 
before  him.  He  appeared,  to  the  shrewd  eyes  of  Dr. 
Cassin,  like  a  man  in  deep  suffering.  But  when  he 
spoke  it  was  with  the  poise,  the  sense  of  dominating 
personality,  that  she  had  felt  and  admired  during  all 
the  earlier  years  of  their  long  association.  Of  late  he 
had  been  ill  of  a  subtle  morbid  disease  of  which  she  had 


350  HILLS  OF  HAN 

within  the  week  witnessed  the  nearly  tragic  climax; 
but  now  he  was  well  again.  .  .  .  Mary  Cassin  was 
a  woman  of  considerable  practical  gifts.  Her  medical 
experience,  illuminated  as  it  had  been  by  wide  scientific 
reading,  gave  her  a  first-hand  knowledge  of  the  human 
creature  and  a  tolerant  elasticity  of  judgment  that  con- 
trasted oddly  with  the  professed  tenets  of  her  church, 
with  their  iron  classification  as  sin  of  much  that  is 
merely  honest  human  impulse,  that  might  even,  prop- 
erly, be  set  down  as  human  need.  She  saw  clearly 
enough  that  the  quality  in  the  human  creature  that  is 
called,  usually,  force,  is  essentially  emotional  in  its  con- 
tent— and  that  the  person  gifted  with  force  therefore 
must  be  plagued  with  emotional  problems  that  increase 
in  direct  ratio  with  the  gift.  Unlike  Mrs.  Boatwright, 
who  was,  of  course,  primarily  a  moralist,  Mary  Cassin 
possessed  the  other  great  gift  of  dispassionate,  objec- 
tive thought.  I  think  she  had  long  known  the  nature  of 
Doane's  problem.  Certainly  she  knew  that  no  medical 
skill  could  help  him;  her  advice,  always  practical, 
would  have  taken  the  same  direction  as  Dr.  Hidder- 
leigh's.  It  brought  her  a  glow  of  something  not  unlike 
happiness  to  see  that  now  he  was  well.  The  cure,  what- 
ever it  might  prove  to  have  been,  was  probably  mental. 
Knowing  Griggsby  Doane  as  she  did,  that  was  the  only 
logical  conclusion.  For  she  knew  how  strong  he  was. 
"There  has  existed  among  us  a  grave  misapprehen- 
sion"— thus  Doane — "one  in  which,  unfortunately,  I 
have  myself  been  more  grievously  at  fault  than  any  of 
you.  I  wish,  now,  before  you  all,  to  acknowledge  my 


THE  SOULS  OF  MEN  351 

own  confusion  in  this  matter,  and,  further,  to  clear 
away  any  still  existing  misunderstanding  in  your 
minds.  .  .  .  Mr.  Brachey  has  established  the  fact 
that  he  is  eligible  to  become  Betty's  husband.  That 
being  the  case,  I  can  only  add  that  I  shall  accept  him  as 
my  only  son-in-law  with  pride  and  satisfaction.  He 
has  proved  himself  worthy  in  every  way  of  our  respect 
and  confidence." 

Mary  Cassin  broke  the  hush  that  followed  by  step- 
ping quickly  forward  and  kissing  Betty;  after  which 
she  gave  her  hand  warmly  to  Brachey.  Then  with  a 
word  about  her  work  at  the  hospital  she  went  briskly 
out. 

Miss  Hemphill  started  forward,  only  to  hesitate  and 
glance  in  a  spirit  of  timid  inquiry  at  the  implacable 
Mrs.  Boatwright.  To  her  simple,  unquestioning  faith, 
Mr.  Doane  and  Mary  Cassin  could  not  together  be 
wrong;  yet  her  closest  daily  problem  was  that  of  living 
from  hour  to  hour  under  the  businesslike  direction  of 
Mrs.  Boatwright.  However,  having  started,  and  lack- 
ing the  harsh  strength  of  character  to  be  cruel,  she 
went  on,  took  the  hands  of  Betty  and  Brachey  in  turn, 
and  wished  them  happiness.  Then  she,  too,  hurried 
away. 

Elmer  Boatwright  was  studying  his  wife.  His  color 
was  high,  his  eyes  nervously  bright.  He  was  studying, 
too,  Griggsby  Doane,  who  had  for  more  than  a  decade 
been  to  him  almost  an  object  of  worship.  Moved  by 
an  impulse,  perhaps  the  boldest  of  his  life — and  just  as 
his  wife  said,  coldly,  "I'm  sure  I  wish  you  happiness," 


352  HILLS  OF  HAN 

and  moved  toward  the  door — he  went  over  and  caught 
Betty  and  Brachey  each  by  a  hand. 

"I  haven't  understood  this,"  he  said — and  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  smiled  on  them — "but  now  I'm 
glad.  Betty,  we  are  all  going  to  be  proud  of  the  man 
you  have  chosen.  I'm  proud  of  him  now." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BEGINNINGS 
1 

THE  day  of  sudden  and  dramatic  peace  was  draw- 
ing near  its  close.  Seated  on  the  parapet  of  a 
rifle  pit  Betty  and  Brachey  looked  out  over  the  red- 
brown  valley.  Long,  faintly  purple  shadows  lay  along 
the  hillside  and  in  the  deeper  hollows.  From  the  com- 
pound, half-way  down  the  slope,  a  confusion  of  pleas- 
ant sounds  came  to  their  ears — youthful  voices, 
snatches  of  song,  an  energetically  whistled  Sousa 
march,  the  quaintly  plaintive  whine  of  Chinese  wood- 
winds— while  above  the  roofs  of  tile  and  iron  within 
the  rectangle  of  wall  (that  was  still  topped  with  brown 
sand-bags)  wisps  of  smoke  drifted  lazily  upward. 

"It  seems  queer,"  mused  he,  aloud,  "sitting  here  like 
this,  with  everything  so  peaceful.  During  the  fighting 
I  didn't  feel  nervous,  but  now  I  start  at  every  new 
sound.  I  loathed  it,  too ;  but  now,  this  evening,  I  miss 
it,  in  a  way."  He  gazed  moodily  down  into  the  short 
trench.  "Right  there,"  he  said,  "young  Bartlett  was 
hit" 

"And  you  brought  him  in  under  fire." 

"A  Chinaman  helped  me." 
353 


354  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Oh,  it  was  you,"  she  said.  "He  wouldn't  have  done 
it.  I  watched  from  the  window."  Her  chin  was 
propped  on  two  small  fists;  her  eyes,  reflective,  were 
looking  out  over  the  compound  and  the  valley  toward 
the  walled  temple  on  the  opposite  slope  with  its  ornate, 
curving  roofs  and  its  little  group  of  trees  that  were 
misty  with  young  foliage.  "I've  been  thinking  a  good 
deal  about  that,  and  some  other  things.  All  you  said, 
back  there  on  the  ship,  about  independence  and  respon- 
sibility." 

"I  don't  believe  I  care  to  remember  that,"  said  he 
quietly. 

"But,  John,  if  you  will  say  startling,  strong  things 
to  an  impressionable  girl — and  I  suppose  that's  all  I 
was  then — you  can't  expect  her  to  forget  them  right 
away." 

His  face  relaxed  into  a  faint,  fleeting  smile.  But 
she  went  earnestly  on. 

"Of  course  I  know  it  wasn't  really  long  ago.  Not  if 
you  measure  it  by  weeks.  But  if  you  measure  it  by 
human  experience  it  was — well,  years." 

He  was  sober  again ;  cheek  on  hand,  gazing  out  into 
those  lengthening,  deepening  shadows. 

"That  was  what  we  quarreled  about,  John.  I  felt 
terribly  upset.  I  was  blue — I  can't  tell  you!  Just  the 
thought  of  all  your  life  meant  to  you,  and  how  I 
seemed  to  be  spoiling  it." 

A  strong  hand  drew  one  of  hers  down  and  closed 
about  it.  "I'm  going  to  try  to  tell  you  something, 
dear,"  he  said.  "You  thought  that  what  I  said  to  you, 


BEGINNINGS  355 

on  the  ship,  was  an  expression  of  a  real  philosophy  of 
life." 

"But  what  else  could  it  have  been,  John?" 

"It  was  just  a  chip — right  here."  He  raised  her 
hand  and  with  it  patted  his  shoulder.  "It  was  what  I'd 
tried  for  years  to  believe.  I  was  bent  on  believing  it. 
You  know,  Betty,  the  thing  we  assert  most  positively 
isn't  our  real  faith.  We  don't  have  to  assert  that.  It's 
likely  to  be  what  we're  trying  to  convince  ourselves  of. 
.-  .  .  I'm  just  beginning  to  understand  that,  just 
lately,  since  you  came  into  my  life — and  during  the 
fighting.  I  had  to  bolster  myself  up  in  the  faith  that  a 
man  can  run  away,  live  alone,  because  it  seemed  to  be 
the  only  basis  on  which  I,  as  I  was,  could  deal  with 
life.  The  only  way  I  could  get  on  at  all.  But  you  see 
what  happened  to  me.  Life  followed  me  and  finally 
caught  me,  away  out  here  in  China.  No,  you  can't  get 
away  from  it.  You  can't  live  selfishly.  It  won't  work. 
We're  all  in  together.  We've  got  to  think  of  the  others. 
..  .  .  I'm  like  a  beginner  now — going  to  school  to 
life.  I  don't  even  know  what  I  believe.  Not  any  more. 
I — I'm  eager  to  learn,  from  day  to  day.  The  only 
thing  I'm  sure  of"  ...  he  turned,  spoke  with 
breathless  awe  in  his  voice  .  .  .  "is  that  I  love  you, 
dear.  That's  the  foundation  on  which  my  life  has  got 
to  be  built.  It's  my  religion,  I'm  afraid." 

Betty's  eyes  filled ;  her  little  fingers  twisted  in  among 
his ;  but  she  didn't  speak  then. 

The  shadows  stretched  farther  and  farther  along  the 
hillside.  The  sun,  a  huge  orange  disc  descending  amid 


356  HILLS  OF  HAN 

coppery  strips  of  shining  cloud,  touched  the  rim  of  the 
western  hills;  slid  smoothly,  slowly  down  behind  it, 
leaving  a  glowing  vault  of  gold  and  rose  and  copper 
overhead  and  a  luminous  haze  in  the  valley.  Off  to  the 
eastward,  toward  Shau  T'ing  and  the  crumbling  ruins 
of  the  Southern  Wall  (which  still  winds  sinuously  for 
hundreds  of  miles  in  and  out  of  the  valleys,  and  over 
and  around  the  hills)  the  tumbling  masses  of  upheaved 
rock  and  loess  were  deeply  purple  against  a  luminous 
eastern  sky. 

"Will  you  let  me  travel  with  you,  John?  I've 
thought  that  I  could  draw  while  you  write.  Maybe  I 
could  even  help  you  with  your  books.  It  would  be 
wonderful — exploring  strange  places.  I'd  like  to  go 
down  through  Yunnan,  and  over  the  border  into  Siam 
and  Assam  and  the  Burmah  country.  I've  been  read- 
ing about  it,  sitting  in  the  hospital  at  night." 

"There  would  be  privation — and  dangers." 

"I  don't  care." 

"You  wouldn't  be  afraid?" 

"Not  with  you.  And  if — if  anything  happened  to 
you,  I'd  want  to  go,  too.  ...  Of  course,  there'd  be 
other  problems  coming  up.  Don't  think  I'm  altogether 
impractical,  dear." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

She  hesitated.  "Children,  John.  I  know  we  shan't 
either  of  us  be  satisfied  to  live  just  for  our  happiness 
in  each  other.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  about  that, 
watching  you  here,  during  the  siege." 

"No,  we  shan't." 


BEGINNINGS  357 

"And  with  your  work  what  it  is — what  it's  got  to 
be — there's  our  first  problem." 

"We'll  have  to  take  life  as  it  comes." 

"Yes,  I  know."  They  were  silent  again.  Gradually 
the  brilliant  color  was  fading  from  the  sky  and  the 
distant  hills  softening  into  mystery.  .  .  .  "Father 
says  that  we'll  find  marriage  a  job — " 

"Oh,  it's  that!" 

"Full  of  surprises  and  compromises  and  giving  up. 
He  says  it's  very  difficult,  but  very  wonderful." 

"I  should  think,"  said  Brachey,  his  voice  somewhat 
unsteady,  "that  it  would  be  the  most  wonderful  job  in 
the  world.  Its  very  complexities,  the  nature  of  the 
demands  it  must  make." 

"I  know!" 

After  a  long  silence  he  asked,  so  abruptly  that  she 
looked  swiftly  up: 

"Do  you  ever  pray,  dear?" 

"Why— yes,  I  do." 

"Will  you  teach  me?  I've-  tried — up  here  in  the 
trenches.  I've  thought  that  maybe  I'd  pick  up  a  copy 
of  the  English  prayer-book.  They'd  have  it  at  Shang- 
hai or  Tientsin.  .  .  ." 

2 

Dusk  was  mounting  the  hill-slopes. 

"It  was  a  strange  talk  father  and  I  had.  Nearly  all 
the  afternoon — while  you  were  checking  up  ammuni- 
tion and  things.  It's  the  first  time  he's  really  sat  down 
with  me  like  that — like  a  friend,  I  mean — and  talked 


358  HILLS  OF  HAN 

out,  just  as  he  felt.  Oh,  he's  been  kind.  But  it's  queer 
about  father  and  me.  You  see,  when  they  sent  me  over 
to  the  States,  I  was  really  only  a  child.  Mother  was 
dead  then,  you  know.  Father  was  always  hoping  to  get 
over  to  see  me,  but  there  was  all  the  strain  of  building 
up  the  missions  after  the  Boxer  trouble,  and  then  he'd 
had  his  vacation.  And  he  couldn't  afford  to  bring  me 
out  here  just  for  the  journey." 

Brachey  broke  in  here.  "Did  you  ask  him  if  he 
would  marry  us?" 

She  nodded.  "Yes.  And  he  won't.  That's  partly 
what  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  He's  resigned." 

"From  the  church  ?" 

"Yes.  He  thought  of  having  Mr.  Boatwright  do  it. 
But  it  seems  that  his  position  is  rather  difficult.  On 
account  of  his  wife.  She'll  never  be  friendly  to  us." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"I  could  see,  though,  that  Dad  was  glad  about  our 
plan  for  an  early  wedding.  Of  course,  he's  had  me 
to  think  of,  every  minute.  He  did  say  that  the  certain 
knowledge  that  I'm  cared  for  will  make  it  easier  for  him 
to  carry  out  his  plans.  But  he  wouldn't  tell  me  what 
the  plans  are.  It's  odd.  He  doesn't  like  to  think  of  me 
as  a  responsibility.  I  could  see  that.  I  mean,  that  he 
might  have  to  do  something  he  didn't  believe  in  in  or- 
der to  earn  money  for  me.  He  said  that  he's  been  for 
years  in  a  false  position.  I  never  saw  him  so  happy. 
He  acts  as  if  he'd  been  set  free." 

"Perhaps  he  has,"  Brachey  reflected  aloud.  "It  is 
strange — almost  as  if  we  represented  opposite  swings 


BEGINNINGS  359 

of  the  pendulum,  he  and  I.  Perhaps  we  do.  I've  not 
had  enough  responsibility,  he's  had  too  much.  Prob- 
ably one  extreme's  as  unhealthy  as  the  other." 

"I've  worried  some  about  him,  John.  But  he  begs 
me  not  to.  He's  planning  now  to  sell  all  his  things." 

"All?" 

"Everything.  Books,  even.  And  his  desk,  that  he's 
had  since  the  first  years  out  here.  Mr.  Withery  is  go- 
ing to  be  in  charge  at  T'ainan,  and  Dad's  leaving  the 
final  arrangements  to  him." 

"You  speak  as  if  your  father  were  going  away,  far 
off.  And  in  a  hurry." 

"He  is.  That's  the  strange  thing.  Just  to  tell  about 
it,  like  this,  makes  it  seem' — well,  almost  wild.  But 
when  you  talk  with  him  you  feel  all  right  about  it. 
He's  so  steady  and  sure.  Just  as  if  at  last  he's  hit  on 
the  truth." 

The  night  drew  its  cloak  swiftly  over  the  valley. 
For  a  long  time  after  this  conversation  they  sat  there 
in  silent  communion  with  the  dim  hills ;  she  nestling  in 
his  arms ;  he  dreaming  of  the  years  to  come  in  which 
his  life — such  was  his  hope — might  through  love  find 
balance  and  warmth. 

3 

Doane  was  at  the  residence  when  Brachey  left  Betty 
there  —  at  the  door,  chatting  with  M.  Pourmont. 
He  walked  away  with  Brachey.  And  the  tired  but  still 
genial  Frenchman  looked  after  them  with  a  puzzled 
frown. 


360  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"Stroll  a  bit  with  me,  will  you?"  said  Doane.  "I've 
got  a  few  things  to  say  to  you."  And  outside  the  gate, 
he  added  soberly  :  "About  the  beastly  thing  I  did." 

"I've  forgotten  that,"  said  Brachey;  stiffly,  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"No,  you  haven't.  You  never  will.  Neither  shall  I. 
What  I  have  to  say  is  just  this — it  was  an  over- 
wrought, half-mad  man  who  attacked  you." 

"Of  course,  I've  come  to  see  that.  All  you'd  been 
through." 

"What  I'd  been  through,  Brachey,  wasn't  merely 
hardship,  fighting,  wounds.  It  was  something  else,  the 
wreck  of  my  life.  I'd  had  to  stand  by,  in  a  way,  and 
look  at  the  wreckage.  I  was  doing  the  wrong  thing, 
living  wrong,  living  a  lie.  For  years  I  fought  it,  with- 
out being  able  to  see  that  I  was  fighting  life  itself.  You 
see,  Brachey,  the  power  of  dogmatic  thinking  is  great. 
It  circumscribed  my  sense  of  truth  for  years." 

He  fell  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  up  at  the  stars. 
Then,  simply,  he  added  this  : 

"I  want  you  to  know  the  whole  truth.  I  feel  that  it 
is  due  you.  My  struggle  ended  in  sin.  The  plainest 
kind — with  a  woman — and  without  a  shred  of  even 
human  justification.  Just  degradation.  ...  I  can 
see  now  that  it  was  a  terrific  shock.  It  nearly  pulled  me 
under,  very  nearly.  They  want  me  to  stay  in  the 
church,  but  I  can't,  of  course." 

"No,"  said  Brachey,  "you  wouldn't  want  to  do 
that." 


i  BEGINNINGS  361 

i 

"I  couldn't.  I  went  through  the  more  or  less  natural 
morbid  phases,  of  course.  That  attack  on  you — " 

"That  was  partly  exhaustion,"  said  Brachey.  "You 
weren't  in  condition  to  analyze  a  situation  that  would 
have  been  difficult  for  anybody.  And  of  course  I  was 
in  the  position  of  breaking  my  pledge  to  you." 

"It  was  more  than  that,  Brachey.  The  primitive 
resurgence  in  me  simply  reached  its  climax  then.  No 
— let  me  have  this  out !  I  suspected  you  because  I  had 
learned  to  suspect  myself.  That  blow  was  a  direct  re- 
sult of  my  own  sin.  And  I  want  you  to  know  that  I've 
come  to  see  it  for  what  it  was." 

"H'm!"  mused  Brachey.  They  were  standing  by  a 
pile  of  weathering  timbers,  beside  the  old  Chinese 
highway.  "Shall  we  sit  a  while?"  Then— "I'd  have 
to  think  about  that."  Finally — "I  don't  know  but  what 
your  analysis  is  sound.  But" — he  mused  longer,  then, 
his  voice  clouded  with  emotion,  broke  out  with — "God, 
man,  what  you  must  have  suffered!  And  after  our 
row.  ...  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it."  And  then, 
quite  forgetting  himself,  he  rested  a  hand  on  Doane's 
arm.  It  was  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  adult  life  that 
he  had  done  so  demonstrative  a  thing. 

Doane  compressed  his  lips,  in  the  darkness,  and 
stared  away. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  replied,  after  a  moment,  "I've  suf- 
fered, of  course.  I  even  made  a  rather  cowardly  try 
at  suicide." 

"No— not— " 


362  HILLS  OF  HAN 

"On  my  return  from  Shau  T'ing  I  walked  into  the 
Looker  lines  in  broad  daylight.  I  rather  hoped  to  go 
out  that  way.  But  the  fighting  was  over.  I  couldn't 
even  get  killed." 

He  seemed  as  confiding  as  a  child,  this  grave  power- 
ful man.  And  he  was  Betty's  father!  Brachey  was 
sensitively  eager  to  help  him. 

"Betty  said  you  had  new  plans.  I  wonder  if  you 
would  feel  like  telling  me  of  them." 

"Yes.  I've  meant  to." 

"Are  you  going  back  to  the  States?" 

"No.  Not  now.  Not  with  things  like  this.  My 
worldly  possessions,  when  everything  is  sold,  will 
probably  come  down  to  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred 
dollars.  My  library  is  worth  a  good  deal  more  than 
that,  but  won't  bring  it.  I  have  a  little  in  cash;  not 
much.  I've  estimated  that  two  hundred  dollars — gold, 
not  Mex. — will  get  me  down  to  Shanghai  and  tide  me 
over  the  first  few  delays.  I'm  giving  Betty  the  rest, 
and  arranging  for  Withery  to  turn  over  to  her  the 
proceeds  of  any  sale." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  down  there?" 

"Work.  Preferably,  for  a  while,  with  my  hands." 

"You  don't  mean  at  common  labor?" 

"Yes.  Why  not?  I  have  a  real  gift  for  it.  And  I'm 
very  strong." 

"That  would  mean  putting  yourself  with  yellow 
coolies.  The  whites  wouldn't  like  it;  probably  they 
wouldn't  let  you.  And  you  have  a  brain.  You're  a 
trained  executive." 


BEGINNINGS  363 

"I  won't  take  a  small  mental  job.  A  large  one — that 
would  really  keep  me  busy — yes.  But  there'll  be  no 
chance  of  that  at  first.  And  I  must  be  fully  occupied. 
I  want  to  be  outdoors.  I  may  take  up  some  branch  of 
engineering,  by  way  of  private  study.  But  at  the  mo- 
ment I  really  don't  care.  .  .  ."  He  smiled,  in  the 
dark.  Brachey  felt  the  smile  in  his  voice  when  he 
spoke  again.  "I  was  forty-five  years  old  this  spring, 
Brachey.  That's  young,  really.  I  have  this  great  physi- 
cal strength.  And  I'm  free.  If  I  have  sinned,  I  have 
really  no  bad  habits.  I  probably  shan't  be  happy  long 
without  slipping  my  shoulders  under  some  new  burden 
— a  good  heavy  one.  But  don't  you  see  how  interest- 
ing it  will  be  to  start  new,  at  nothing,  with  nothing? 
What  an  adventure  ?" 

"It  won't  be  with  nothing,  quite.  There's  your  ex- 
perience, your  mental  equipment.  With  that,  and 
health,  and  a  little  luck  you  can  do  anything." 

"Yes,"  said  Doane,  "it  is,  after  all,  a  clean  start. 
I've  been  terribly  shaken." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Brachey  gently.  "And  I'm  start- 
ing new,  too."  He  rose;  stood  for  a  moment  quietly 
thinking;  then  turned  and  extended  his  hand.  "Mr. 
Doane,  here  we  are,  meeting  at  life's  crossroads. 
You're  starting  out  on  something  pretty  like  my  old 
road,  and  I'm  starting  on  a  road  not  altogether  unlike 
yours.  The  next  few  years  are  going  to  mean  every- 
thing to  each  of  us.  And  what  we  both  do  with  our 
lives  is  going  to  mean  everything  to  Betty.  Let's,  be- 
tween us,  make  Betty  happy."  His  voice  was  a  little 


364  HILLS  OF  HAN 

out  of  control,  but  he  went  resolutely  on.  "Let's,  be- 
tween us,  help  her  to  grow — enrich  her  life  all  we  can 
— give  her  every  chance  to  develop  into  the  woman 
your  daughter  has  a  right  to  become !" 

Doane  sprang  up;  stood  over  him;  enveloped  his 
hand  in  a  huge  fist  and  nearly  crushed  it. 


The  Reverend  Henry  Withery  came  in  that  night, 
on  a  shaggy  Manchu  pony,  with  his  luggage  behind  on 
a  cart.  And  late  the  following  afternoon  a  wedding 
took  place  at  the  residence.  A  great  event  was  made 
of  it  by  the  young  people  of  the  compound.  The  hills 
were  searched  for  flowers.  A  surprising  array  of  pres- 
ents appeared.  Mrs.  Boatwright  was  prevented  from 
attending  by  a  severe  headache,  but  her  husband,  at 
the  last  moment,  came.  The  other  T'ainan  folk  were 
there.  His  Excellency,  Pao  Ting  Chuan,  with  fifteen 
attendant  mandarins,  in  full  official  costume,  among 
whom  was  Mr.  Po  Sui-an,  lent  the  color  of  Oriental 
splendor  to  the  occasion.  His  Excellency's  gift  was  a 
necklace  of  jade  with  a  pendant  of  ancient  worked 
gold.  Withery  performed  the  ceremony ;  and  Griggsby 
Doane  gave  the  bride. 

The  young  couple  were  leaving  in  the  morning  for 
Peking,  at  which  city  the  groom  purposed  continuing 
for  the  present  his  study  of  the  elements  of  unrest  in 
China. 

Directly  after  the  wedding  and  reception  a  remark- 


BEGINNINGS  365 

ably  elaborate  dinner  was  served  in  the  large  dining- 
room,  at  which  Griggsby  Doane  appeared  for  a  brief 
time  to  join  in  the  merrymaking  with  an  appearance 
of  savoir  faire  that  M.  Pourmont,  shrewdly  taking  in, 
found  reassuring ;  but  he  early  took  a  quiet  leave. 

At  dusk,  after  the  talking  machine  had  been  turned 
on  and  the  many  young  men  were  dancing  enthusi- 
astically with  the  few  young  women,  the  newly  wedded 
couple  slipped  out  and  walked  down  to  the  gate.  Here, 
outside  in  the  purple  shadows,  they  waited  until  a  huge 
man  appeared,  dressed  in  knickerbockers,  a  knapsack 
on  his  back  and  a  weatherbeaten  old  walking  stick  in 
his  hand. 

The  bride  clung  to  him  for  a  long  moment.  The 
groom  wrung  his  hand.  Then  the  two  stood,  arm  in 
arm,  looking  after  him  as  he  descended  to  the  high- 
road and  strode  firmly,  rapidly  eastward,  disappearing 
in  the  village  and  reappearing  on  the  slope  beyond, 
waving  a  final  farewell  with  stick  and  cap — very  dimly 
they  could  see  him — just  before  he  stepped  through  the 
old  scenic  arch  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 


THE  END 


